Yawning, Robert glanced at the mantel clock on the other side of the office. Miss Lydia Whitfield would be there in ten minutes, precisely. And here he sat, half asleep at the desk outside Mr. Lynch’s closed door.
Another yawn suggested to Robert that he stand up, walk about, or get some fresh air before he was obliged to think clearly. Of all nights for Cassidy to knock on his door, last night couldn’t have been more poorly timed. While there was no doubt that Cassidy was in a pickle, it was not a new occurrence; Cassidy was always getting into one scrape or another and relying on Robert to get him out. This one, however, might require significant intervention, even if that involved tying Cassidy to a chair next week.
A duel.
Robert sighed and shook his head. How was it that Vincent Cassidy, who only a few months ago agreed on the general stupidity of the rite, had been manipulated into participating in one?
To Robert, all sides of a duel were the wrong side—no matter what the reason. His tolerance for the illegal but still prevalent manner of defending honor was never high, but his brother’s needless death had erased any acceptance he might have had for something that could only be described as a perilous huff.
If feathers were to be unruffled before the momentous day of stupidity, Robert would have to gather as much information as possible before approaching the offended person … a person who must have known that Cassidy had dipped far too deep and was well in his cups. How could a gentleman be insulted by the words of a young man making a cake of himself? Robert needed to understand the motives of the man involved; his investigation would begin with a conversation, a long conversation with a sober Vincent Cassidy. Tonight.
Standing, Robert stretched and glanced at the clock; five minutes before Lydia’s arrival. It was time for a breath of air to clear his head and get him out from behind his desk. With a glance at Mr. Lynch’s door, Robert headed down the stairs. He would wait on the sidewalk, ready to hand her down.
The fresh breeze brought some revival, and pacing smartly in front of the tawny stone building for a moment or two brought the remainder. At one, precisely, Robert was in position, standing straight and proud. Glancing around, he saw that the busyness of the street was limited to a milk wagon, two drays, and a tilbury. A mother and child meandered across the road, and two men loitered, leaning on the corner streetlamp. It was quiet in a semibustling way. Perhaps stating it was quiet in a non-Lydia sort of way would be more apt to Robert’s way of thinking, for the street was decidedly Lydia-less.
With a frown, Robert pulled out his pocket watch. Hmm … five after one. Looking around yet again, Robert saw that the two men were no longer leaning, sauntering instead in his direction, and the mother and child had been replaced by a gentleman in a bowler, marching with purpose on the opposite side of the road. And still no carriage or travel coach appeared—nothing that would indicate the arrival of the usually punctual Miss Lydia Whitfield.
With a sigh of resignation, Robert was about to determine that Lydia was late when he spied a small coach rolling down the road from the right direction. It was still too far away to ascertain that the driver was Mr. Hodge, and yet Robert was fairly sure that the young lady was indeed about to arrive.
He was rather surprised by the quickening of his heartbeat and the sudden need to throw out his chest. Ignoring both, Robert replaced his foolish grin with a benign smile and nodded to the coachman as he pulled up in front of the law office. The driver was not, in fact, Mr. Hodge, nor was the face at the carriage window that of Lydia’s. However, there was no mistaking Miss Shipley, so Robert immediately opened the door and offered her his hand as she stepped down to the curb.
While greeting the young lady, who was all blond curls and polite smiles, Robert presented his hand again and was very pleased to see Lydia lean into the light. However, just as she gripped his fingers, the carriage door on the other side slammed open, and Lydia glanced over her shoulder. The coach dipped on its springs as if someone had entered. Lydia gasped and was jerked backward.
Hauled halfway into the coach by Lydia’s hold, Robert sprawled across the threshold, feet pedaling for the step. Catching the edge, he launched himself inside, only to land on his knees on the carriage floor. Intending to spring up, Robert was instantly halted in his ascent by the press of cold, hard steel against his neck just below his jaw. It was an untenable position, kneeling with a knife at his jugular, while Miss Shipley’s piercing scream filled the air.
The carriage dipped again, and a guttural voice barked out from the driver’s bench. The coach pulled away from the curb, picking up momentum as it sped away. The door banged shut behind Robert, and Miss Shipley’s distress faded into ominous silence.
Blinking hard to adjust to the semidark carriage, Robert tried to turn his head.
“Ah, ah, no ya don’t. Make yer self comfortable right there.”
The rigidity of his muscles was meant to mask Robert’s fury, his planned attack. But the knife was pressed deeper.
“I’d sooner slit your throat, my boy. Don’t give me the excuse.”
A gasp from Lydia stilled his fury. Suddenly he was cold with fear—fear for the safety and sanity of Lydia Whitfield. He had to protect her at all costs. Swallowing with difficulty, he breathed deeply through his nose, struggling for calm and balance.
Would she faint and become entirely vulnerable? How could he reassure her? Would she cry in terror—
“Here, take my bag and be done with it.” Lydia’s tone was almost as sharp as the knife against Robert’s throat.
“Don’t want yer bag, silly cow.”
Suddenly the carriage jerked, rattling into and out of a deep rut; Robert tensed against the inevitable slice and was surprised by how little it hurt.
“Have a care!” Lydia shouted with obvious distress. “You have cut him.”
“Oh,” the villain snickered. “Look at you. Red after all—ay. Not a blue blood—ay. Not to worry, just a nick, me boy. Don’t get yer drawers in a bunch.”
And yet the pressure was eased—the damage to his throat minimized.
“Are you all right, Mr. Newton?” There was a slight tremor to her query, but Robert could neither voice an answer nor move his head.
“Ah, don’t you worry none, me girl. Just a drop of blood … thimbleful at most.”
“How can you be so cavalier? You are putting his life at risk,” she snarled. “And for what? What do you want?”
“Ah, Missy. Not gonna answer any a yer questions. I were warned about you.”
“Warned? You know who I am? Have you been watching me?”