Son of a Duke (7 page)

"It is all right, Miss Quinton.
 
They are gone."
 
He shook the scarf at her.
 
"This was all they left behind."
 

She started to get up from the small place she was squeezed into between the obnoxious tree and the wall.
 
Her feet slid across some fronds on the floor, leaving her slipping back down to the ground.
 
He waited, unsure if he should help her or if his presence and touch would send her into hysterics once more.
 
But when she looked up at him, his breath stuck in his lungs once more at the abject innocence he found in them.
 
He wanted to pick her up, hold her against him, carry her away from all of this and-

And do what?
 

Support her on the salary of an agent for the War Office?
 
He thought it unlikely.
 
And once again, he felt the helplessness of a child engulf him.
 
A helplessness that raged unbidden in his mind.

"Mr. Black, I seem to be incapable of getting up.
 
Would you please assist me, sir?"
 
A more politely worded request he had never heard before in his life.

"Certainly, madam."
 
She was holding up her hands to him, so he took them very gently in his and pulled.
 
Her feet would not gain purchase on the floor, and she began to slide directly between his legs, first her own legs disappeared between his and then her torso and then he saw her face heading for-

His arms were under and around her, pulling her upright faster than even he thought he was capable of moving.
 
Her face smacked into his chest instead of his more delicate areas, which he considered a good thing.
 
But by the way Miss Quinton immediately tensed at such a close proximity to him, he knew she did not think it a good thing at all.
 
His arms were snuggly around her, her head tucked just under his chin.
 
He could not help but think how perfectly she fit, and how good it felt to hold her with her scent invading his senses.
 
Lemons...and wax.
 
She smelled like cleaning formulas.
 
He wanted to pull her closer, which was most likely impossible, but he very much wanted to try anyway.
 

Instead, he took a deep breath and a step back.
 
He had not even realized that she had been holding onto him as tightly as he had been holding onto her until her hands slid along his back and around to the front as he stepped away from her.
 
Her eyes were closed or looking at her feet or something, but it was killing him not to see what they were saying.
 
Was she scared, terrified, ready to kill him for touching her?
 

It seemed an eternity before her lids rose, and her brown eyes flickered in the candlelight.
 
Wariness.
 
He saw wariness in them.
 
And insecurity.
 
But not fear.
 
There was not any fear in them.
 
The air rushed from his lungs, and blood surged to his head making him dizzy.
 
He sat down casually on the edge of the platform to cover his sudden euphoria.
 
She was not scared.
 
A little wary, a little insecure, a little unsure, but not scared of him.
 
Uncertainty was easier to work with than outright fear.
   

The scarf was still in his hands, so he handed it to her.
 
"Found this.
 
That is all.
 
The ground is too firm for footprints."
 
She took the scarf from him, which left his hands free to scrub over his face with them.
 
He had been staring at her so hard that he feared his eyes were going to fall out of his head.
 
He pushed his hands into his hair, rubbing his scalp, hoping to clear his brain, which was suddenly cluttered with thoughts of lemons, wax and red brown hair.
           

"Bridget Davies was wearing this.
 
She left about a half hour ago with Daniel Flattery."
 
She held the scarf out to him.
 

"Bridget Davies?"
 
That name had not appeared anywhere in the intelligence on this mission.
 
He did not even recall a Bridget Davies having been on the invitation list for the evening's affair.

"They have not come back yet.
 
I am hoping they heard the mass exodus and left discreetly through the back.
 
Or tongues will be wagging tomorrow."
 
She sighed, looking to the spot where the body had been.
 
"Well, they will be wagging more."
 

"What do you mean they have not come back yet?"
 
He knew his mind wasn't so befuddled with lemons and wax that he could not understand English any longer.
 

"They went for a stroll in the gardens, Mr. Black."
 
She pursed her lips at him as if any idiot would know to what she referred.

"Oh, quite," he finally said and looked back at the floor.
 

This entire affair had gone drastically wrong, and nothing seemed to be improving matters.
 
He had the wrong man dead, Archer was still out there somewhere, and now someone was shooting at him.
 
And then there was Eleanora Quinton.
 
Nathan should have listened to his brother and never gotten out of that hack.
 

"Mister Black, did you hurt yourself?"
 

He raised his eyebrows.
 
"Not that I recall."
 

"You are bleeding."

He jumped up as if a dog had taken a bite out of the seat of his pants.
 
"Where?"

She cocked her head, her lips moving into...a smile?
 
His night was already not going very well.
 
He did not need to add an injury to it.
 

But then Miss Quinton approached him.
 
Slowly at first and then with more assurance, and then one tentative hand reached for the sleeve of his jacket.
 
He felt the barest of touches tug at the fabric of his greatcoat, and the smell of lemons flooded his senses.
   

"It looks like the bullet was closer than you thought," she said.
 

He had been staring at the top of her head, and her voice shook something inside of him.
 
He followed the line of her hand to where it perched on his upper arm.
 
He saw where the jacket had torn, and dried blood stained the ripped fabric.
 
It was not the first time he had been shot, but it did not mean he liked it any more.

"It will be fine, Miss Quinton," he said, pulling his arm away from her touch.

She finally looked up at him then, and he saw something move across her features.
 

"Nora," she said, and the softness of her voice had his body relaxing unwillingly.
 
"You may call me Nora."
 

He wanted to smile.
 
He wanted grab her and pull her against him.
 
He wanted...her.
 
But he did nothing and simply replied with, "And I am Nathan."
 

She did not move and neither did he.
 
They both stood, staring at each other amongst the wreckage of the ballroom.

A sudden commotion in the hall had them both turning toward the door.
 
Feet struck the hard floor in rapid staccato as someone dashed along its length.
 
Bursting through the ballroom doors, a boy of about ten slid into the mess of the ballroom and stopped, staring at the mutilated ferns, broken glasses and various pieces of apparel.
 
His mouth was hanging open, as his straw straight brown hair fell into his eyes.

He finally saw Nora and Nathan standing down the room and shouted even though he really need not have.
 

"Did someone really get shot, Mama?"

~

Nora did not move.
 

She did not dare to breathe.
 

Of all the things she had expected to happen this night, none of the events that had actually transpired were on her list.
 
Not a single one.
 

If she were to learn anything from tonight, it would be to always listen to Hawkins even if his ramblings bordered on ludicrous.
 

"Mr. Black-" she began, but he cut her off.

"I'm afraid someone was shot, young man," Nathan said, stepping towards the young boy in the doorway.

Nora had not realized quite how small her son still was.
 
She had been watching him everyday for more than nine years, and he always amazed her with his capabilities and sheer presence.
 
She often forgot he was still just a little boy with his too thin features, large dark eyes and mop of pin straight brown hair that continuously flopped in his eyes.
 
She took a protective step forward, but Nathan was still ahead of her.
 

"You need not worry on it.
 
This was strictly an affair of the War Office of mother England.
 
You are quite safe, lad."
 

Nora watched Samuel back up as Nathan approached.
 
She could not remember when it was that Samuel had taken to retreating from men.
 
She worried it was an indirect influence from her, but she could not be sure.
 
Still, watching him recoil from a perfectly fine gentleman made her heart sink as a mother.
 
Was she truly that quick to react to a male's presence?
 
Did Samuel pick up on it that easily?

 
"What is your name, son?"

Nathan advanced more, and Nora still tried to get in front of him.
 
But then she noticed Nathan's hand.
 
The one closest to her was open, palm wide and fingers splayed as if telling her to stay back.
 
What was he doing?
 
This was her son, and she was not just going to stand back while he cowered with insecurity in the doorway.

"Samuel."
 
Her son was not shouting any more.
 
He was barely pushing out enough air to make noise.
 

"Samuel.
 
That's a fine name.
 
How old are you?" Nathan continued, and Nora held her breath.

"Nine, sir."

"Nine.
 
That's fantastic.
 
You're almost old enough to be a spy yourself.
 
Ever thought about being a spy, Samuel?"

Nora looked at Nathan.
 
She was not sure what she had expected Nathan to say, but the topic of espionage was not high on her probabilities list.
 
She looked back at Samuel and realized he watched her.
 
He was doing that thing that Nora so often did.
 
He looked over Nathan's shoulder instead of at him, making it appear as though he were looking through Nathan instead.
 
Nora felt her mouth go slack.
 
Never had her mothering skills been so apparent to her.
 

She smiled.
 
She was not sure what made her do it or even where the energy for it had come.
 
But she did, and she saw Samuel twitch.
 
It was a physical thing, and she held her breath as Samuel answered the question.

"No, sir.
 
If I'm a spy, I won't be here to look after my mother."
 

Nora's heart dropped again.
 
She knew the bond with her son was strong and close, but she had not quite realized how much of a parental role her own nine year old boy had assumed.
 
He should not have been doing thusly.
 
He should have been playing marbles or jacks or running around causing mischief with other boys his age.
 
He should not have been taking care of his mother, much less worrying over her.
 
Nine year old boys were not supposed to worry.
 

Nora looked about her suddenly, taking in everything around her, and feeling the weight of the house itself and her station in it press down on her.
 

Samuel should not be here.
 
He should be running through fields and catching frogs and scraping his knees.
 
That's what she had always wanted to do as a child instead of running Aunt Martha's household for her and her seven brats.
 
She looked back at Samuel and saw him watching her, not looking at Nathan in the slightest and she wondered if the two of them had asked a question of her.
 
But then Nathan spoke.

"Samuel."
 
Nathan's voice came out on a soft tone, and Nora wondered if he realized Samuel's trepidation.
 
"What are you thinking of doing if spying is out of the question?
 
Perhaps you would like to be king of England?"
 

Samuel scowled.
 
"Indeed not, sir.
 
I would not like people to know my name when I passed them on the street.
 
Everyone would be bowing down to me, and it would be a nuisance.
 
The streets would be clogged with bowing people, and no one would get anywhere."
 

Nora saw Nathan blink and felt a pang not knowing what he thought of her son.

 
"What would you like to do then?" Nathan asked.