He sat on the bed, removed his boots and coat, set Ridlington’s card on the floor, and flopped down on the bed. In addition to the bed, the room held a wardrobe and a table with a basin for washing. The room had one small window, which Ewan had covered with black cloth to block the sun. The room held nothing else—no books, no papers, no personal mementos. The walls were white and unadorned with paintings.
The room, simple in purpose, was just as he liked it. Nothing to confuse or distract him. He closed his eyes and slept.
When he awoke several hours later, it was to the rumbling of his belly. He might have gone down to the kitchens and found bread and cold stew, but when he sat up and dropped his feet onto the floor, they landed on Ridlington’s card. He still did not know what to do about it, but he knew who could tell him. Neil Wraxall would know what to do. Neil always knew.
And Neil would be at their club.
Ewan stripped, washed, and dressed again in one of his finer coats. He didn’t don a cravat. He didn’t like anything tight on his neck. The club didn’t require a cravat. The club didn’t require anything except that the members had served in Lieutenant Colonel Draven’s special unit.
The suicide unit, as Neil called it.
The survivors called themselves the Survivors. They called Ewan the Protector.
Ewan might have taken a hack to the Draven Club, but it was a sunny, though unseasonably cool, spring afternoon and the walk from Langley’s on Piccadilly and St. James’s to King Street was short. Besides, he liked to pass Boodles. The ancient lords hobbling inside always hobbled a bit faster when they caught sight of him.
He hadn’t walked very far when he was surprised by a streak of brown and white bounding past him and into St. James’s, which was crowded with carts and carriages at this time of day. The creature barely avoided being trampled by a horse pulling a cart filled with produce. It scurried away from the large hooves and wheels and then huddled, frozen, in the center of the street.
“Watch out!” a woman’s voice called right before she barreled into him. But as he was large and she was much smaller, the impact sent her reeling. He might have caught her and set her on her feet if she hadn’t scrambled away, heading directly into the street.
Ewan watched in disbelief as she stumbled directly in the path of a coach and four, whose driver had obviously given his horses free rein. She looked up, saw the approaching conveyance, but instead of jumping back onto the curb, she ran into the coach’s path and scooped up the little brown and white scrap of fur. Now both she and the furry creature would be trampled and run down.
Ewan didn’t think. He acted. Heart pounding in his suddenly tight chest, he jumped into the street, crossing to the woman in two huge strides. He yanked her out of the path of the coach and four, feeling the breath of the horses on his neck as he shoved her to safety on the other side of St. James’s. His heart thudded painfully against his ribs with what he recognized as fear and panic. They’d almost died. For a moment, St. James’s became a blood-soaked field, and the clatter of hooves was the sound of rifles. Ewan closed his eyes and drew a slow breath. And then he shook the memory off and came back to the present.
But his hands were still shaking.
Ewan had shoved the woman a bit hard, and she’d fallen to her knees. He would have to beg her forgiveness, though she should really be the one groveling at his feet with gratitude. But instead of looking up at him with appreciation in her eyes, she scowled. “I almost crushed Wellington.”
Ewan looked right then left for the duke. Not seeing the general, Ewan glanced in confusion back down at the woman. She pointed to the fur ball. “My dog. You pushed me so hard I almost crushed him.”
So the dog was named Wellington, and she blamed Ewan for the danger to the animal. Ewan frowned at her. Was he supposed to apologize for saving her life and that of the beast? Perhaps she had become momentarily disoriented by the tumult. “You ran into the street,” he pointed out. Anyone could see the street was busy and dangerous.
She waved a hand dismissively, as though the fact that she had almost been flattened under the hooves and wheels flying past them was but a small matter. “Wellington escaped his collar and leash at Green Park. I have been chasing him all this way.”
That explained why she had been on St. James’s Street, which was typically the domain of men, and why the dog was running. It did not explain why she did not thank him, but he’d come to expect women to be difficult. Ewan grasped her arm and pulled her to her feet. Belatedly, he realized he should have offered her his arm, but now it was too late. “Where do you live?”
Now it was her turn to frown. She had light green eyes framed by delicate brows, which slanted inward in confusion. Then she blinked. “Oh dear, no. You must not escort me home. You look like some sort of Viking warrior or Norse god. My mother would… Well, best not to discuss what my mother might do.”
Ewan crossed his arms and stared down at her. This pose usually elicited tears from those of the fairer sex. But this one shook her head again in defiance. “My maid is probably wringing her hands at the park. I must return.”
He hadn’t looked very closely at the woman, but now he noted her fine-quality dress and spencer. Both were soiled with dirt and animal hair. She was a lady. Now the lack of gratitude made sense. He’d known many such ladies. They looked down their nose at everyone. This time Ewan made certain to offer his arm. She looked at it in horror. “Do you want my mother to confine me to my room?” she asked.
Ewan did not know the answer to this inquiry, so he merely continued to stand with his arm crooked. She pushed it down—or rather he allowed her to push it down. “No, thank you, sir. I am perfectly capable of returning to the park on my own. If I encounter any difficulty, Wellington will protect me.”
Ewan glanced at the fur ball. The dog wouldn’t have scared a flea.
“Good day.” She hoisted the wriggling creature in her arms, cradling it like an infant. She must have been completely daft. That was the only explanation for her delusions.
Or perhaps she was just a woman. He did not claim to understand women. He left that to Rafe. The daft woman marched off, thankfully looking both ways before crossing St. James’s, and disappeared into the hawkers and vendors on the other side. He could have gone after her, but if he did, it would only be to protect anyone else who happened to fall into her path.
Ewan stared after her for a long moment before being jostled back into motion. The remainder of the journey was uneventful, and Ewan arrived at the club just as Jasper, the best tracker Ewan had ever known, was leaving. Porter, the club’s Master of the House, stood in the doorway, silver head held high.
The two former soldiers paused on the steps and nodded to each other. Jasper’s face had been horribly scarred during an ambush that cost Draven two men, and he wore a length of black silk tied about his hair and a mask that hid most of one side of his face, including the scarred flesh. “You looking for Wraxall?” Jasper asked.
Ewan nodded.