The Viscount. Lyn Stone
as his word, Guy led her out the back of the house and through the tangle of vines at the back gate. The moon cast its weak glow on the path they took, one she knew was traversed by tradesmen and those who were obliged to enter the great homes from the rear entrance. And perhaps by thieves and denizens of the night with no business being here.
She was nearly breathless with exertion and apprehension when he came to a halt and looked up at the high stone wall they had been following and the imposing iron gate in front of them. “It’s locked at night. We’ll have to climb it.” He crouched down. “Put your foot in my hands and I’ll boost you. Grab the top and pull yourself up.”
Lily took a deep breath and did as he said. Images of their being hauled off by the local watch and trying to explain this distracted her, but she made it. Lying along the top of the foot-thick stone wall, she watched him shin up the bars of the iron gate and join her.
“Now take my hands and I’ll lower you down,” he said calmly, as if he did this sort of thing every night. Perhaps he did. She complied, coming to rest on solid ground with a thump of her overlarge boots. He followed, taking a moment to brush his ungloved palms on his trousers. “There!”
“Where are we?” she demanded. “And what are we doing here?”
“Earl Hammersley’s. He’s a friend of mine. We’re going to steal two of his horses.”
“No!” She grabbed his arm as he started for what looked to be the stables. “You cannot do this! If he’s a friend, why not simply ask to borrow them?”
“He’s out of town this week. They’re visiting Julia’s family. His man would never loan his mounts without his approval. Don’t worry. I will explain it to him later.”
Still, Lily dragged her feet, hoping to dissuade him. “Guy! This is a hanging offense!”
“Don’t be absurd, sweetheart. They don’t hang nobles.” She heard laughter in his voice. The man was crazy.
“Well, imprison us then! Guy, this is madness!” she rasped in a loud whisper, hating to use that word, but there was none other fitting this deed so well as that.
He kept walking, dragging her along with him. “Oh, stop quibbling, darling. This will be child’s play.”
Lily groaned.
They reached the stables and he walked right in as if he owned the place. “Jemmy? Are you asleep, man?” he called.
A moment later a young fellow appeared out of what looked to be the tack room, rubbing his eyes and running a hand through his hair. He did not seem alarmed. In fact, quite the opposite. “Lord Duquesne? What are you doing here this time of night?”
“Came to borrow two nags. Lady Julia’s Pepper and Lord Michael’s gelding. What’s his name?”
“Cinnamon, sir. But you know very well I can’t loan them without his lordship’s permission. He’s told me—”
“I know, I know,” Guy said with a sigh. “Turn around.”
“Beg pardon?” Jemmy asked.
“Turn around.”
The boy, obviously used to following the commands of his betters, did as he was told. Guy pushed him to his knees and slipped a small thin rope around his wrists, expertly tied it off and then secured his ankles, trussing the boy up like a Christmas goose.
“You can get loose with a little effort, but not before we’re long away. Tell Lord Michael I’ll return his horses in prime condition. He won’t be angry with you since you couldn’t prevent this.”
“But, my lord, you know how he treasures his horseflesh! And I am responsible!”
“Of course you are, lad, but this gets you off the hook. Tell his lordship I’ve done this to save my wife.”
“Your wife!” Jemmy exclaimed, his wide-eyed gaze flew to Lily.
“Lady Lillian,” Guy said by way of introduction. “Tell Hammersley.”
“Yessir,” Jemmy agreed, now resigned and not even struggling to free himself. “Congratulations, my lord.”
“Thank you, Jemmy.” With that, Guy proceeded to lead the horses from their stalls and assemble the tack. Lily lent a hand, saddling the beautiful black mare herself.
Within minutes they were leading the horses out the back gate, unlocked with the keys Guy seemed to know were ensconced within a hollow in the stone wall. Lily supposed he had been here many times before to know the place so well.
“The earl will understand, won’t he?”
“Certainly,” Guy assured her as he gave her a leg up into the saddle. “Michael might value his mounts above most of his possessions, but he treasures his wife more than life itself. He’ll figure I’d do the same.”
What would it be like to be loved that much? Lily wondered. She supposed she would never know, but even Guy’s pretense of it felt comforting. He had stolen horses for her. Wrong as that was, she experienced a thrill over it. She could never imagine the very proper Jonathan having done such a thing.
His courting of her had been romantic to a degree. They had met quite by accident when a wheel had broken on his trap along the road to Maidstone. Her father had stopped to offer assistance or a ride. She had felt that noble gaze assessing her as she sat beside the vicar, and knew she was the reason Jonathan had accepted the ride. After that, he became a constant visitor, soon a suitor, then her husband. Her father had heartily encouraged her early marriage. Even she admitted she could hardly have expected to do better than a baron, or the man himself. Theirs had been a quiet, steady bond that had strengthened with each passing year and the birth of their son. Perhaps Jonathan’s heart had not been strong enough, even then, for the intense sort of love Guy spoke of his friends having. Nevertheless, she felt blessed to have had a good and faithful husband.
She adjusted her reins and prepared to ride, settling comfortably into the man’s saddle. She had never ridden astride before and thought she might quite like it.
“On to Whitechapel,” Guy announced, obviously eager for the adventure.
Lily nudged the mare closer to the gelding, seeking reassurance in Guy’s nearness. She also hoped his sudden enthusiasm for the remainder of their escapade would somehow communicate itself to her. Her reservations were growing by the minute as the moon waned and the darkness of the alleyways swallowed them up.
Guy remained alert, his gaze continuously sweeping the narrowing streets leading them into the infamous hell that was Whitechapel.
Conditions deteriorated the farther they rode, bound for the heart of Rupert Street with its rickety tenaments and stench of poverty. Rats skittered off refuse left to rot. Gutters ran with offal and worse.
He glanced at Lily who was barely visible beneath the one flickering oil lamp that remained unbroken past the turn onto Rupert Street. Weapon at the ready, he swiveled quickly at the sound of scuffling feet.
“Stand away,” he ordered the figures who appeared out of the cavern between the buildings.
“Aha, ’tis himself!” one of the footpads said with a snarking laugh. “Who’d ye be after then, Duquesne?”
“Tommy Roundhead,” Guy growled.
“Cost ye, guv,” the fool declared, still sniggering.
“Cost you if you don’t fetch him,” Guy replied, cocking the pistol. It was the expected ritual.
Not two moments later Roundhead stepped out of the alley, immediately recognizable by his overlarge pate. “Duquesne? It’s only Thursday.”
“Not here for the scuttle tonight, Tom. I’ve need of you,” Guy told him. Without waiting for an answer, he shifted the pistol to his left hand and reached down with his right.
Tommy