Chapter Eight
The following morning, Willa broke her fast alone, served by Clara, who was thrilled to show her the new riding habit which had been delivered from Madame Monique, along with another two day dresses. Willa admired them enthusiastically, and was disgusted with herself that as soon as Daxton’s bedchamber door opened, all her attention flew immediately in that direction.
However, it was only Carson who emerged, whistling. “Morning, m’lady,” he greeted her.
“Good morning, Carson. Is his lordship within?” she asked casually. She hadn’t heard him come back last night, but then she’d slept like the dead from the moment her head touched the pillow.
“No, m’lady. He’ll be back shortly, though.”
Stupidly, her heart sank. She’d always known what Dax was, and what life with him would be like. She didn’t expect him to stay in or to attend only the most respectable social functions with her. Fashionable husbands and wives lived largely sperate lives outside the home, and she would have died rather than constrain Dax to be with her through guilt or duty. She would have to learn just to enjoy her moments with him and find her own way for the rest of the time so that he didn’t feel obliged to look after her. And after last night, she had invitations to call on several local ladies. Lady Wickenden had even spoken of arranging some expedition of pleasure in the countryside.
Her gaze fell on the new riding habit draped over the back of a chair. “Carson, where does one hire a horse in Blackhaven?”
“Livery stables,” said Dax, breezing in through the outer door just in time to hear her question. “And I’ve found you a beautiful little mare.”
Her heart skipped a beat, as it often seemed to around him. She couldn’t help being pleased that he wore well-fitting buff breeches and a blue coat, rather than last night’s black evening clothes as she’d more than half expected.
“Oh, thank you, Dax! How did you know that riding was exactly what I wanted to do today?”
“I guessed from the new habit,” he said with a quick grin.
“Do I have to take a groom?” she asked.
“Not if I’m with you.”
“But you’re not allowed to ride,” she protested, indicating his injured arm.
“We won’t go far and I’ll only use one hand.”
“I’m not sure that works,” she said doubtfully.
“Well, if it opens the wound, we’ll just have to get the quack back. Hurry and change.”
*
It was too easy to forget Daxton’s injury as they rode along the beach under the turreted castle they could see from all over the town, and then up the path to the hills beyond it.
“That must be Braithwaite’s pile,” Dax observed. “Wonder if he’s at home?”
“Is he a friend of yours?”
“Not anymore,” Dax said. “He told me off for compromising his sister.”
“Oh dear,” Willa said uneasily. “You didn’t, did you?”
“No, it was a fuss about nothing. We danced together a few times at some party—possibly more than the requisite twice. I don’t perfectly recall, to be honest, expect I was foxed—and the old bore they’d betrothed her to took exception to my singling her out.”
“Did you apologize?” Willa asked.
“Lord, no. Told Braithwaite they shouldn’t tie such a lively girl to such a dullard. It was asking for trouble. And that if she was happy about the marriage, she wouldn’t be flirting with me.”
“I don’t expect he liked that.”
“He didn’t. If we had been in his house, he’d have thrown me out. Since we were in mine, he had to make do with stalking out. He hasn’t spoken to me since.”
Now that he told the story, she realized she’d heard something similar being discussed among her cousins just before she’d left for Blackhaven. She looked at Dax, preparing for pain. “Were you in love with Lady Serena?”
“Good God, no,” he said with satisfying astonishment. “And before you ask, she ain’t in love with me, either. She just wanted a little amusement at a very dull party. Look at the view from here. Isn’t this another of Tamar’s scenes?”
“Yes, I believe it is. He caught it very well, I think.”
“He was showing me some of his other paintings last night. I never expected him to have such a talent.”
“Did you see him after the ball, then?”
“Yes, we drank contraband brandy in a seedy tavern and once the sailors started to fight, we backed off and went to his studio instead. He lives there among paints and canvasses. You have to see the place.”
“I’d love to,” she said warmly, delighted not so much by where he’d been but that he’d told her.
After a very pleasant and companionable ride, they returned the horses to the livery stable on the edge of the town and walked the rest of the way to Lord Tamar’s studio. This was little more than a one room fisherman’s cottage by the shore, though with spectacular views.
It was impossibly cluttered. Tamar seemed perfectly happy to sweep all the tools, sketches, and canvases off the sofa and onto the floor so that Willa could sit. Not that she wished to for very long. She preferred to flit about the room, examining all the paintings.
Only one was covered up with a paint-spattered cloth. Willa peeped beneath and found a portrait of a young couple. The lady had a refined sort of quiet beauty and she wore hazy spectacles that reflected the light, giving her a faint impression of mystery and a rather sweet vagueness. The man beside her was ruggedly handsome, with hard blue eyes. He looked restless and impatient, although his hand rested protectively on the back of the lady’s chair. Behind them was the sea view from Tamar’s studio window, but he’d painted it in such a way it might have been from a ship’s large cabin window.
“I’m not sure whether that one’s finished or not,” Tamar offered, dropping onto a rug on the floor and reaching for a sketch book. “Sometimes it makes me angry because it’s not right, and other times I think it’s the best portrait I’ve ever done.”
“Who are they?” Willa asked curiously.
“The Honorable Mr. and Mrs. Alban Lamont,” Tamar replied. “Otherwise known as Captain Alban and Lady Arabella Niven.”
“Really? Oh, I don’t think Ralph ever stood a chance with her, Dax, do you?”
Dax strolled over to look. “No, she’s got too much character,” he pronounced. “How would you paint us, then, Rags?”
Tamar, busily sketching, said only, “Haven’t decided yet.”
“Do we get to decide?”
“No. But you have a right of veto.”
“Fair enough. Shall we go, Willa? I think we’ve lost him to his muse.”
Tamar grinned. “Ah, no, you are my muse. Or at least Lady Dax is. But go away, by all means.”
“He was always the best of hosts,” Dax observed.
*
More than three hundred miles away, stood the very different seaside town of Brighton, which the Prince Regent had made fashionable and overcrowded. Here, in the house she’d taken for the summer, the Countess of Romford was indulging in a fit of the vapors.
Fortunately, she did so before no larger an audience than her husband, who watched proceedings with growing irritation. Eventually, with a curse, he threw down the letter that had caused all the trouble.
“Oh for God’s sake, my lady, pull yourself together!” he snapped.
When she paid him no heed, he strode to the wall and pulled the bell.
“What are you doing?” the countess demanded quite clearly.
“Ringing for your maid. I won’t have this damned racket in my presence. When you’ve recovered, we’ll talk again.”
“Oh no, Romford, wait! I don’t want the wretched maid. It’s just the shock.”
“Well, it’s a shock to me, too,” her husband retorted. “But you don’t see me making a scene that can probably be heard in the damned Pavilion.”
“Oh, stop being such a bear,” the countess said crossly. “We have to put our heads together and decide what can be done about this disaster.”
“Done about it? Nothing! He married the damned girl, whoever she is, to spite me. Now he can live with his own folly.”
“She’s Sally Shelby’s niece.”
Lord Romford snorted. “Well, at least he didn’t marry the housemaid.”
“He might as well have. Her mother’s birth is unexceptionable, but George Blake was some fly-by-night flim flam merchant who abandoned them both within a year. When the mother died, the Shelbys took the child in.”
Romford scowled. “Well, it could be worse, I suppose.”
“No, it couldn’t. I was never more taken in in my life. I remember Willa Blake as a lively, polite young girl with a lot more sense than the rest of them. She thinks she’ll take my place one day as countess!”
“Well, she will,” Romford said brutally.
“Over my dead body,” the countess said grimly before turning on the servant who’d answered the bell. “Go away!”
The footman effaced himself.
“Gretna Green,” the countess said disparagingly. “A paltry, shabby business and easy to have overturned. All I need is Charles’s cooperation.”
“Why the devil would he cooperate?”
His wife regarded him with pity. “Because if I know our only son, he’s done this in a fit of drunken rage and is already regretting it. We’ll have it annulled on the grounds of nonconsummation if nothing else. How well do you know the archbishop?”
“What archbishop? He’s irrelevant if the marriage took place in Scotland. Besides, there are no grounds for annulment in non-consummation, only in the lack of the ability to consummate, and no one’s going to believe that of Daxton!”
“I’m not sure you’re right about that. In any case, you must look into the legalities. I will ensure Daxton’s cooperation in shaking off this ridiculous mésalliance.”
“And how will you do that?” her lord inquired with heavy sarcasm. “I suppose he is known for his amiability and desire to please us.”
Lady Romford whisked herself to the study door. “He is known for pleasing himself. And so, I shall go to Mrs. Holt’s party.”
*
At the evening party, Lady Romford’s quarry was easily discovered, since she was her hostess. Helena Holt was beautiful, accomplished, intelligent and, in Lady Romford’s opinion, utterly amoral. It was no wonder Daxton had been drawn to her.
Since Lady Romford had made no secret of her disapproval of her son’s relationship, no one was more surprised than Mrs. Holt when she found herself welcoming the countess.
“We must have a cozy talk,” the countess said playfully, tapping her fan against the wrist of her son’s lover.
Mrs. Holt looked understandably appalled, but as the countess had fully intended, curiosity ensured that her host sought her out before too many minutes had passed.
“I hear I am to congratulate you on Lord Daxton’s nuptials,” Mrs. Holt drawled, as they took a turn together around the drawing room.
“I don’t consider it a matter for congratulation,” the countess said frankly, “and neither, I imagine, do you.”
“It is immaterial to me whom he marries.”
“I suppose you quarreled,” Lady Romford guessed. “That will have contributed to his anger. Not that I blame you. A saint would quarrel with Charles if he’s in the wrong mood. Can we at least agree that this is not the right time for him to marry anyone?”
A faint frown marred Mrs. Holt’s beautiful brow. “It is done.”
“And if it could be undone?”
Mrs. Holt’s frown deepened. “I don’t understand. What is it you want of me?”
“I want you to remind my son just why he doesn’t wish to be married…at this time.”
*
Dax didn’t pay much attention to the theatre. He normally attended such establishments with the dubious intention of getting drunk with his cronies and ogling the actresses and dancers. It was quite a novelty for him to sit through an entire performance sober and actually enjoy himself.
It had been Willa’s idea. Apparently, she loved the theatre, but had barely had the chance to enjoy it in the past, being kept well to the back of her aunt’s box as a kind of maid to take care of shawls and such.
In Blackhaven’s small theatre, Dax was quite diverted by the farce and tolerated the tragedy, but his main enjoyment came from watching his wife’s rapt expressions. Leaning forward, she clearly got caught up in the whole experience, living each moment with the characters, laughing at the jokes and even wiping the odd surreptitious tear.
Her emotions ran deeply, he realized, and she’d clearly been starved of both fun and affection at the Shelbys. But in her company, it was easy to keep his anger in check, even when he saw that the Shelbys were present, too. Ralph, who was escorting his mother and sister, barely concealed his ill-grace.
With rare patience, Dax awaited his moment. Eventually, during the final interval, Ralph left his box and appeared a few moments later in the pit with more congenial company.
Since two local ladies and one of Willa’s male admirers were visiting their own box, Dax took the opportunity to slip out and downstairs.
It had been Kate Grant who’d warned him that Lady Shelby had been whispering her disappointment with her niece and alluding to a purse which had vanished on the same night as Willa. Perhaps it was a measure of Dax’s new maturity but he actually contemplated leaving the rumor to run its course, for surely the truth would out before long without his help. But he found he valued his wife’s happiness and he didn’t want anything to mar it.
He was acquainted with all of the men in Shelby’s group—in fact, the young woman in the lowcut gown looked familiar, too. Strolling directly up to them, he exchanged cheerful greetings and a few jokes about the play. Only then, did he turn to Ralph, who stood stiffly beside him, acknowledging his presence by little more than a curl of the lip. Perhaps it was meant to be a smile, though Dax doubted it.
“A word, Shelby,” he said easily. “Excuse us, ma’am, gentlemen. Family matters, you know.” With that, he seized Shelby’s arm and jerked him away from the group, toward the door to the back stairs.
“Get your hands off me,” Shelby said between his teeth.
“Gladly,” Dax said, releasing him. “But I’m more than happy to make this public if you don’t come with me.”
“Make what public?” Shelby demanded.
Dax pushed open the door and politely ushered his enemy through before following and letting the door fall back behind him.
Since the stair led to the boxes above, they were well lit, but quieter than the main staircase from the foyer.
Dax wasted no time. “It’s come to my attention that your mother is spreading lies.”
“If you’re trying to insult my mother—”
“I’m not. I’m insulting you who fed her the lies. Understand, you won’t hurt Willa with this nonsense. If I catch so much as one more whisper, I’ll start reminding people who won that purse from you, and who gave it back to you via the hotel staff, who returned it to your mother’s maid.”
Under the candlelight, Shelby flushed darkly. “Left it behind, did you?” he blustered.
“Yes. Willa asked me to return it to your mother. So, you’ll see why it’s so paltry of you to be trying to accuse her of the crime that is entirely yours. That can easily be made public knowledge, too. The hotel staff already know. If you want to make such figures of yourself and your family, just carry on whispering your lies. I will know.”
With that, Dax simply climbed the stairs away from him. He imagined he’d said enough.
*
For Willa, the week following her marriage was the happiest of her life. There was a delicious novelty in doing exactly as she pleased, when she pleased. She had new and interesting friends who swept her along on expeditions of pleasure and improvement and invited her to all the social gatherings Blackhaven had to offer. She even had male admirers, who vied to walk with her, fetch her things, and sit beside her as well as dance. It was all rather intoxicating for a girl who’d lived most of her life in genteel drudgery.
But the best parts were the times she spent with her husband.
Dax occasionally accompanied her on her outings with Lady Wickenden and Mrs. Grant, whom she now called Gillie and Kate. And he escorted her to evening events, although he hardly lived in her pocket, especially as her acquaintance and her confidence grew. But nearly every day they had their own expeditions—riding or walking or enjoying an al fresco luncheon in the sunshine.
One evening, instead of going out, they sat together in their sitting room, each reading their own book and occasionally watching the sea which could be glimpsed over the rooftops from their window. Once, she glanced up and found him watching her.
“What?” she asked, as once before. “Have I a smut on my nose?”
“No. I was just thinking what a restful person you are. I can’t remember the last time I just sat in peace.”
“Is that good?” she asked lightly, suddenly afraid that she was boring him.
He smiled. “I think so.”
Of course, he went out later on, but the peace and the closeness stayed with her.
Often, they spent time with Lord Tamar, who worked every day on their portrait. Usually. Once, when they arrived by appointment, he’d already been imbibing brandy with some disreputable friends who welcomed Dax among them like a long-lost brother. Willa found them fun and amusing, and they soon lost any awkwardness in her company. Neither she nor Dax considered the afternoon wasted. In fact, Dax seemed both surprised and delighted that she’d enjoyed meeting his wilder cronies.
“Damn me if I won’t be taking you with me to gaming dens and the like,” he grinned. “I daresay, you’d bring me good luck.”
“I suppose you’ll have more money to lose at such places now,” she observed.
He glanced away, a little ruefully. “I suppose I shall.”
Willa understood that he was “being good” for her sake. Part of her was warmed by it and part was afraid, because she didn’t want him to spend time with her through guilt. She didn’t want him growing to resent her. She knew, too, that it was only a matter of time until he “broke out”. Although he seemed quite content, and his more moderate lifestyle was clearly good for his health, she was aware she could not change his character and did not wish to.
On the evening a week after their hasty marriage, they dined with the Wickendens at Gillie’s childhood home. There, they met Gillie’s brothers—one a strapping lad of twenty summers, the other a baby of no more than six months—and her stepmother. Mrs. Muir was an elegant Spanish lady with a haughty demeanor that seemed to betoken shyness rather than disapproval.
The Grants were present, too, for it was something of a celebration as well as a farewell dinner. The Wickendens were leaving for their estate the following day, and Gillie, blushing, imparted the news that she was to have a child in the New Year.
Willa was sorry they were leaving, for she liked Gillie very much, but she supposed it would not be long now before she and Dax left Blackhaven, too.
They didn’t walk directly back to the hotel, but strolled along the beach from the harbor, talking now and again. It was peaceful, companionable. And yet Willa had never been so aware of anyone as she was of Dax, sauntering at her side in the moonlight. Her hand was tucked loosely in the crook of his elbow, and she felt his every step brush against her skirts.
She gazed at the dark, rippling sea, constantly in motion, and yet somehow calm. Reflecting the silver moonlight, it was incredibly beautiful and just part of the wonder that was her new life. She’d never been so happy before. It flooded her, bringing sudden tears that she tried very hard not to release.
She didn’t realize Dax was watching her, until one gentle finger brushed the corner of her eye.
“Tears, Will?” he said softly.
She shook her head. “Only because it’s so beautiful here. And I’m so happy, suddenly.”
He paused and turned her toward him, searching her face.
A smile began to play around his lips. “I believe you are.”
His hand cupped her cheek, drawing her a pace closer as he bent his head over hers. Her heartbeat quickened, depriving her of breath. She couldn’t look away from his lips as they slowly parted and drew nearer to hers.
Her eyelids fluttered, trying to close, but she wouldn’t let them.
His mouth closed on hers, gentle and sweet. She was afraid to move, but from some instinct, her lips clung to his until he lifted his head.
“That was sweet,” he murmured. “For me, at least.”
“You can do it again, if you like.” Her voice wasn’t quite steady.
A smile flickered across his lips as he lowered them once more to hers, brushing in a soft caress before sinking and claiming.
She gasped at the force of it, and he took advantage, deepening the kiss. Just like in the carriage that first time, she felt his tongue and teeth, and everything in her leapt to meet him. His hand tangled in her hair, holding her head steady for his ravishment, while his other arm swept around her, pulling her hard against him.
Heat flooded her, seeming to melt her very bones. Every inch of her thrilled under his mouth, to the hardness of his body which held few secrets through her flimsy gown. It was almost like those heady moments in the carriage after their wedding, only sober, he was more sensitive, a shade gentler. Compared with that experience, she sensed a hint of restraint in his passion that somehow inflamed her even more. She wanted to make him lose it, although she hadn’t much idea what that would entail. She just knew that when the kiss ended, she wanted more and stood on tip toe, snaking her arms around his neck to take back his mouth.
He gave it, and she responded with shy but eager passion.
“I think we’ve done this before,” he murmured against her lips. His voice, like his breath, was uneven, adding to her excitement. “I remember your lips, your kisses.” He detached his mouth, leaving it hovering over hers. “Don’t I?”
She hedged. “How can I know what you remember and don’t?”
“Did I make love to you in that hired chaise?”
“Does it matter?”
“Well, yes, because if I don’t remember such a gift, it’s almost enough to make me forswear the bottle.”
“You kissed me,” she admitted. “And then you laid your head on my breast and went to sleep.”
His lips brushed hers. She felt the soft graze of his teeth. “Are we still leaving each other a way out, Willa?”
“We still have one, if you want it.”
“Do I?”
A breath of laughter stirred her lips.
“I don’t think I do. I’m tempted—very tempted—to take you here on the beach, with the moon as witness.”
Her heart thundered. “Why don’t you?”
He seized her mouth in a hard, almost bruising kiss that was over before she could even respond. “Because the damned sand gets everywhere. And because then you’d be stuck with me before you even know what I’m capable of.”
“You might be capable of badness,” she said. “But you’re not a bad man, Dax.”
His hand swept down her back, pulling her hips into his. She gasped with shock and sudden, surging desire as the hardness of his erection dug into her abdomen.
“Yes, I am,” he whispered. “Never doubt it.” His kiss was hot, melting, utterly devastating. And when it was over, it turned into another. His heart thudded against hers.
And then, very slowly, his arm fell away. His hand slid down her wrist to take her fingers and he began to walk on.
Since her hair was loose and tangled by then, she drew the hood of her cloak up over her head before they took the path back up to the town. Anticipation kept her breathless as they walked back to the hotel.
Briefly, by the door, she was distracted by the sight of a man she seemed to recognize. She must have seen him around town a lot, but she couldn’t place who he was.
In any case, she didn’t truly care. Excitement, longing, and just a little fear flooded through her veins, intensifying as they entered the hotel and walked upstairs to their rooms.
As usual, one lamp was left burning, but there was no sign of either Carson or Clara. Her heart thundered as he led her straight to her bedchamber door, without lighting any more candles.
“Good night, new wife,” he murmured, kissing her hand, and then, softly, her lips.
Until he released her hand and stepped away, she didn’t properly realize that he was leaving her. For an instant, dazed disappointment cleaved her tongue to the roof of her mouth. Then as he turned away, she blurted, “Dax. You don’t need to go.”
He paused but didn’t turn his head. His breath was labored. “Oh, I do,” he said at last. “Trust me, I do. Good night, Willa.” And then, as if his feet were made of lead, he walked to the passage door and left, closing it quietly behind him.
*
Jem Brown, Clara’s rejected suitor, had discovered ambitions well beyond the confines of inheriting the lease to Black Farm. He much preferred the easy money paid to him by gentlemen for doing the things they couldn’t be seen doing themselves. And Jem thought he was pretty good at it.
Not that he’d actually done anything yet to earn that other, promised purse full of money, but the gentleman, Sir Ralph Shelby, was more interested in discretion than speed, and so he’d spent several days watching his victim’s habits.
The beauty of the situation was, his victim turned out to be the man employing Clara, who’d never gone home after Jem’s failed abduction. It was Daniel Doone who’d told him she now worked for Lady Daxton. Generously, Jem wished her well. He even wished Dan well until the fellow began to get in his way.
Because finding out his victim’s habits turned out to be impossible. He didn’t have any. He was totally erratic. The man never left the hotel at the same hour two days running, or went to the same places. He didn’t see anyone at regular hours but was rarely alone, and when he was, he moved so quickly that Jem had trouble finding him, let alone killing him.
This job, clearly, was not going to be quite as easy as he’d imagined, not least because Dan Doone seemed to be hanging about Lord Daxton as well. To be near to Clara, Jem supposed, although he’d heard Dan say he was paying off a debt to his lordship.
And yes, when Jem entered the tavern, there he was again, standing by the counter with a pint of ale, making occasional conversation with the tavern keeper and the tap boys. Meanwhile, Lord Daxton roistered at the back of the tavern with several other nobs, all clearly the worse for wear.
There were possibilities, of course, in Daxton staggering home in his cups, only the bastard rarely staggered, however much he put away, and if he parted from his friends before the hotel door, there were nearly always other people around. Often Dan.
Jem betook himself to the counter and requested a mug of ale. Then he turned and regarded Dan, as though surprised to see him there. “Dan.”
“Jem,” Dan said warily.
“What you doing in this den of vice then?”
“Having a pint of ale. What are you doing?”
“Thought you’d have taken Clara home by now. Since you balk at Scotland.”
Dan regarded him with hostility.
Jem smiled winningly. “No hard feelings, mate. I reckon she isn’t for either of us. But I want you to know I withdraw from the contest. As far as I’m concerned, she’s all yours.”
Dan smiled sourly. “If only it were that simple.”
“What’s she doing here in Blackhaven anyway? Why doesn’t she go home?”
“Because you ruined her reputation,” Dan retorted. “And because Lady Daxton took a shine to her and gave her a position as her maid.”
“Aye, I’ve seen her running after the woman. What about him? You working for him, too?”
“No,” Dan said with dignity. “Well, not really. I shot him by accident, if you must know, so I’m just helping out.”
Jem sniggered, hiding the fact that he was impressed, and looked across the smoke-filled room to where Lord Daxton was arm wrestling the local carter while his friends cheered him on. “He doesn’t look shot,” he observed, “I admire a man like that. He’s not looking for any more help, is he?”
“Not that I know of and in any case, Lady Daxton wouldn’t let you within a hundred yards of her household. Clara told her everything, and she’s not one of the usual ladies who don’t give two pence for their servants.”
There went another possibility. It seemed he couldn’t infiltrate the household and get to Daxton that way. He’d just have to continue watching and waiting for his opportunity.
Which came sooner than he expected. Without warning, Lord Daxton hauled himself to his feet, seized his hat, and sauntered away from his table with no more than a casual farewell. His friends called after him in disappointment, but his lordship didn’t pay any attention, merely lurched through the door to the street, swaying slightly in the fresh air.
And Dan had gone to relieve himself.
Jem drained his mug, threw a few coins on the counter, and sauntered after Lord Daxton. This was a real possibility. Jem reached into his capacious coat pocket and wrapped his fingers around the knife he carried there. Once they passed the drunken sailors and whores hanging around the tavern door, the road was quiet. When Daxton turned the corner, before he reached the lights and probable traffic in High Street, Jem could slide in the knife. Tavern scum would be blamed. Some poor bastard would probably be arrested and hanged. That wasn’t Jem’s problem.
Jem moved swiftly, judging his timing to a nicety. Daxton wasn’t weaving up the street exactly, but walked with the amiable expansiveness of the slightly bosky. This should be easy. Shelby would give him more money. There would, no doubt, be more jobs from him and from his friends. And then even more money. In a few months, Jem could be set up for life. All because he stole that purse from the maid’s pocket.
Jem began to run silently. In his condition, Daxton should barely be aware of him. And as he ran past, it would be easy just to slide the knife between his ribs. It would be like stabbing butter, if he judged it right.
Except, just as he withdrew the knife from his pocket, his legs suddenly vanished from under him and he fell to the ground with such force that the knife skittered across the road. Daxton kicked it further away before dropping a sovereign on the ground beside Jem’s bemused face.
He hit me! Damn it, he kicked my legs from under me!
“Next time, just ask,” his lordship suggested and sauntered off. Jem, hearing pounding footsteps behind him—probably Dan’s—was forced to roll under a hedge into someone’s garden and take off round the back of the house before he was recognized.
And he’d lost his bloody knife.