Fates for Apate Page 11

  “Well, we can’t let them do that.”

  “I’m glad you agree.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Casimir had been idly watching the crowd at a distance when a flash of yellow caught his attention. Yellow dress, blond hair. Gina was being carried by some dark haired man? Opening the door of his carriage Casimir stepped out on the street, but the dark haired man had already bundled Gina into a different carriage that set off at once. Not sure what to do Casimir shouted up to his driver, “Follow that carriage!”

  Had his vision betrayed him? Was that not Gina? He was fairly certain it was. But if it was, why was his wife leaving with that man? He swung up onto the driver’s seat to keep an eye on the vehicle that had taken her away.

  *

  Feeling slightly better again, George started to worry about her husband. She hadn’t seen him at the church. She hadn’t noticed their carriage, but there had been a bloody million carriages around the church. Was he looking for her? Really she just wanted to fish this letter out of her corset, find Casimir, and figure out where they were going to stay. Well, and get this ball out of her side. But at least she didn’t feel in dire risk of passing out. That was helpful. It would be unseemly to wriggle the letter out of her corset in front of a man she wasn’t married to, but it was just Robert. She considered it. She more than considered it.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Getting the bloody letter out,” she said, turning to shove her arm down her bodice at an awkward angle. Uncomfortable, and perhaps not the best idea to try contortionist exercises when she was already bleeding from a pistol wound, but her slender form, nimble fingers, and natural flexibility won the day. “A-ha!” she said, withdrawing the paper from where she had tucked it between her chemise and corset. The maneuver didn’t appear to have made her wound any more painful, but because life was ironic, as soon as she leaned over to hand the letter to Robert she was rocked with another startling wave of pain. “Bloody hell!”

  The last thing she saw was Robert looking startled. “Georgie?”

  *

  Casimir was frustrated by the slow progression in traffic as they made their way deeper into the city. He’d never been to London before and had no idea if the traffic would worsen or lighten in the direction they were going. The carriage he was following was a good three blocks ahead and began to make a right turn. At the pace they were going they could easily lose it if it made any more turns before they were able to turn themselves.

  “I’m going on foot,” he told the coachman. “Try to follow the carriage, but if you lose it, meet me back at the church.”

  “Aye, guv’nor.”

  With that, he sprang down from the high perch, dashed through the street traffic to reach the sidewalk, and ran after the carriage that had taken his wife away.

  It had been awhile since Casimir had needed to run like this, but fortunately he was still able to. He gained on the carriage as it made it’s way off the main road and into a settled residential area. Townhouses crowded together in tidy formations, like stately soldiers on parade. The neighborhood had a central green and tall, shady trees. He sprinted through it all, gaining even more ground as the carriage slowed to a stop at one of the houses. A tiger held the door open and the dark haired man emerged with Gina again. She was limp, hanging in the man’s arms like a rag doll. The man ran up the steps of the townhouse shouting, “Bobbins!”

  Casimir was only two houses away when the door to the house opened. He was on the steps before the door closed. “Wait!”

  The door hesitated before closing fully and he shoved himself through. Once inside he stopped dead, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. Danger. He could barely breathe, his legs felt rubbery, but the instinct to run kicked in full force.

  The man holding the door was large, brutish. He looked more boxer than butler. The man holding Gina, though smaller, seemed no less of a threat. His eyes were colder than winter and his face entirely expressionless.

  “Who are you?” This from the one with the wintery eyes.

  Casimir remembered Gina’s request that they not announce their marriage at the wedding. It was tempting to announce his claim to her now, but he wasn’t sure she would want that either. He had no idea who this man was and whether Gina had gone with him willingly. However, if there were about to be a fight, the odds were most definitely not in Casimir’s favor. That was when he saw the blood on her limp hand.

  “Is that her blood?” Odds meant nothing at the moment. Only Gina.

  “Bobbins, is the doctor here yet?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Send him into the parlor when he arrives. Meanwhile, take out this.” The man tilted his head to Casimir and, with that, turned to carry Gina away.

  Casimir turned his gaze on the doorman who had just been assigned to get rid of him. Large, tough, and probably quite used to removing recalcitrant visitors. Casimir was winded and smaller, but he knew something that the large man didn’t. He knew what he was capable of.

  He waited for the larger man to make a move.

  The brute started by opening the door in an invitation to leave. Instead of leaving, Casimir moved a few steps closer to the archway the dark haired man had disappeared through, keeping his eyes on his opponent all the while. The larger man looked vaguely annoyed and walked directly toward him, one hand rising to grab hold of Casimir’s arm or jacket, or probably anything that seemed handy. In so doing, he made the mistake of many large men. Assumption that his size and power gave him the only advantage. At the last moment Casimir jumped back a step, encouraging the brute to surge forward. Then he sidestepped, grabbing the man’s hand and sweeping his feet at the same time. The brute, still attempting to seize Casimir, stumbled into the paneled wall with a tremendous crash and an ominous knocking sound as his head rapped the wood.

  Aware that this would probably bring other footmen running, Cas stayed on the balls of his feet, looking around. The dark haired man emerged from the archway, taking in the dazed Bobbins and Casimir still standing warily in the middle of his entrance hall. Whoever he was, this man had blood on his shirt and hands. Probably Gina’s blood.

  The icy stare appraised Casimir with new interest. “Who are you?”

  “How did she get hurt?”

  What was likely to be a protracted staring contest was ended quickly when Gina’s voice called out weakly, “Cas?”

  Both men rushed into the room. Casimir almost stumbled to his knees when he saw the blood that bloomed across her abdomen. Scarlet stretched from almost bosom to hip, a macabre detail on the yellow dress. His stomach rolled and his voice was barely above a whisper when he could finally speak. “You were shot this morning, weren’t you?”

  She nodded weakly.

  Casimir took another staggering step forward. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I had a letter to deliver and a wedding to get to.” She smiled as though it had been an attempt at humor. He didn’t find anything entertaining about it.

  The dark haired man cut into their conversation with a dour tone. “George, you know you’re not supposed to bring them home with you.”

  At first Casimir assumed that the man couldn’t be addressing his wife, his Gina. Then she looked up to reply. He felt his world tilt a bit. Had she been honest with him about anything?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  George wasn’t quite sure how to broach explaining her marriage to Robert. This was part of why she hadn’t wanted them in the same room just yet. And this very moment seemed far less than ideal. She was bleeding, Robert was even more remote than usual, and Casimir looked as though he had just fought his way through a ravening crowd. Her husband, who rarely looked less than perfectly turned out, was sweaty and flushed. His clothing was mussed. In short, he wasn’t quite looking himself.

  She addressed Robert with as much aplomb as she could muster. “Now isn’t the time to address it. Just trust me.”

  When she turned her attention back to
Casimir it was to see the same bleakness, the same darkness, she had glimpsed in his eyes when he spoke of his former fiancée. “Trust you?” he demanded coldly. “Why would anyone ever trust you?”

  “Casimir-”

  “No! I trusted you. I protected you. And you won’t even give me your name?”

  Robert interrupted them. “Casimir? Casimir Rokiczana?”

  Casimir’s furious gaze tracked to the other man, but he said nothing.

  “If that is who you are, then you have done a great service to the British Empire, and I thank you.”

  “Service,” he said bitterly. “I’m so glad that I could be of service to you. That’s all we Poles are good for, yes? Being a service to all the true powers in the world?”

  “Casimir, no,” George protested, but she was silenced as his implacable stare swung back to her.

  “You should be proud of yourself. Even Catherine herself did no better job of using her sexual charms in service to her empire.”

  “That’s not fair!” George sat up, but the pain in her side made her nauseas and dizzy.

  Robert stepped between them. “That’s quite enough, sir.”

  Casimir’s retort, in what she assumed was Polish, was harsh and short. Then he spun on his heel and stalked out of the room.

  “Casimir!” George tried to rise but Robert stopped her.

  “Doctor first,” he admonished, “then we can deal with your lover.”

  George knew that she had tears in her eyes, borne of frustration as well as everything else. “Would you read the bloody letter now?

  Robert pulled the paper from his pocket. “Where did you get it?”

  “From Casimir.”

  Robert had a ghost of a smile. “Well, isn’t he useful?”

  *

  Casimir left the townhouse almost as quickly as he had entered it, nearly running down a squat, bespectacled man on the outer steps. The doctor, he assumed. As though it mattered. As though it were any of his business what Gina did. Whether Gina recovered. Gina, who had been addressed as George by a man who was in a position to thank someone on behalf of the entire British Empire. A man that she most likely worked for.

  The coach had managed to locate them and waited quietly across the street from the townhouse. Casimir boarded for a moment to reclaim his satchel, something he shouldn’t have let out of his sight. Something far more important to his future than some woman who would lie about her name and enter into a false marriage.

  “Stay here,” he called up to the driver. “She may get to you eventually.”

  And then he walked.

  Casimir knew virtually nothing about London. He didn’t know fair direction from foul, and almost hoped to enter one of the meaner districts. He’d already been in two fights today, but neither had been much of a challenge. Both times he had been focused on protecting his wife. His wife. A woman that apparently didn’t exist. Now he wanted to beat his knuckles raw on some ruffian’s face. But rather than descend into a disreputable neighborhood, his luck in wandering led him to a charming shopping district. He found himself between a tea house and a bookstore. The sort of street where a man might take his wife for an afternoon’s entertainment.

  That was what infuriated him the most. She not only seduced him, lied to him, but she stood in front of a man of God and signed a false name on official documents. Standing there, in front of the tea house, he suddenly needed to see the depths of her perfidy. He wanted to see how she had signed Gina Lockhart. He dug the tiny packet out of the inner pocket on his vest, unwrapping the tidy bundle that his friend had made. String, then wax cloth, then tiny envelope all undone, he withdrew their marriage certificate. And stared. Her handwriting was angular and cramped, an odd contrast to his own.

  Georgiana Eugenia Lockhart.

  If he’d not been so distracted chatting with his friend Severin, if he’d looked at either this paper or where she’d signed the registry at the church, he wouldn’t have been surprised by the nickname George.

  Bloody hell. He’d just left his bleeding wife at a stranger’s house.

  Tucking the license back in his vest and stuffing the wrappings in his satchel, he started running for the second time today.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  George lay back down on the sofa as Robert finally unfolded the letter. Almost immediately his expression changed from mild amusement to a flash of anger that faded to his trademark blank, inscrutable expression.

  “Where did he get this?”

  George tried to shrug. “He said it was on his desk as part of the daily correspondence. He brought it to me because it offered assistance with British ports and he thought it sounded more like thieves than anything else.”

  Bobbins brought in the doctor, interrupting them. Shortly thereafter, Robert withdrew.

  The doctor offered George some laudanum to dull the pain, but she politely refused, explaining she was expected at a wedding breakfast. After hearing her explanation of the injury he agreed that removing the ball was of utmost importance. So George found herself on the table in Robert’s kitchen, a kindly old doctor digging in her side, and only Bobbins’s hand to hold. She was about to ask the butler how he’d gotten a goose egg on his forehead when the doctor dug a bit deeper into her side and she screamed. But the doctor claimed victory, holding up the small ball. He treated the wound, sewed it closed, and asked once more if she wanted something for the pain. She declined. Bobbins asked her if she wanted any of her clothes from the carriage outside. She accepted.

  In less than an hour of arriving at Robert’s house she was departing in her hired carriage. She hadn’t seen Robert again after he disappeared with the letter. Her side raged with all the white hot pain that could be expected of a hastily mended pistol wound. She didn’t know where her husband was, and noticed that his satchel was missing from the carriage. All in all, she’d had better days.

  Sabre had best appreciate this.

  George made it through the wedding breakfast. Upon discovering that her family was not in Town, she accepted Jack’s invitation to stay at the Harrington townhouse. Once her luggage was unloaded she was able to finally turn loose the carriage that had brought them from Dover. She’d gone over the interior with an exacting eye to ensure they hadn’t left anything behind. Lost anything. As the carriage rolled out of sight she realized she had absolutely nothing of Casimir. He’d given her no ring, no tokens. Even if he wanted to find her, she doubted that he would be able to. The carriage had been the last thing they’d shared. The only thing he might recognize if he hunted London for her. And now that carriage was mostly likely picking up new passengers to make the journey back to Dover.

  She saw Jack watching her, concerned. The last thing George wanted was her friend fussing over her. But Jack threaded her arm through George’s and gently pulled her toward the stairs. “You seem to need some rest. Let me show you the lovely room you’ll be staying in. They call it the blue room, but the bed hangings are almost the exact shade of the harebells you liked to collect back home.”

  Jack didn’t fuss or linger. George was too grateful to question the reprieve from well-intentioned concern. She simply stripped down to her chemise and buried herself under the harebell-colored bedclothes. If she cried herself into an exhausted sleep, that was no one’s business but her own.

  *

  Jack briefly knocked on her husband’s study door before entering. He looked up from the letter he was writing and set his pen aside.

  “I’m worried about George,” she said.

  “Did you find out why she was bleeding?”

  Jack shook her head. Gideon pushed his chair back from the desk and held his arms open, encouraging her to come sit in his lap as she often did. She settled in with her head tucked under his chin, his hand resting on the slight bump of her pregnant belly. She had Gideon. Sabre had Quince. Who did George have? Wry, complicated George. George, who had seemed less and less herself as the day had worn on.

  Gideon asked, “Do y
ou want me to go talk to Robert to find out what happened?”

  Jack bit her lip but finally said, “No. She’ll tell me what, if anything, she wants to tomorrow. She doesn’t like it if I pry.”

  “Robert took her away and then never returned to his own sister’s wedding celebration. That’s quite odd behavior, if you ask me.”

  Jack nodded. “But neither of them will thank us if we try to help.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  George awoke feeling better rested. Her side still burned like fiery hell. She still had no husband. But she would once again be able to act as though those things didn’t matter. She had spent so much time in her life acting as though things didn’t matter, what was one more day? One more week? She washed, dressed, and went downstairs to begin the pretending.

  When she asked after her hostess, the butler took her to a morning room where she found Jack poring over fashion plates. Jack with an interest in fashion? Intriguing.

  “Good morning, George!” her friend said brightly. Perhaps too brightly. “Have you breakfasted yet?”

  “No.” George lowered herself carefully into a seat.

  “I’ll have Dibbs bring in some tea. And there are pastries that even you won’t be able to decline.” Jack rang for the servants and set to tidying the table in preparation for the arrival of the mid-morning repast. Such a mother hen, and marriage seemed to have made her worse.

  In what she knew was her own classic behavior, George asked baldly, “How is marriage treating you?”

  Jack stopped dead, as though she had been bodily threatened instead of asked a simple question. “Well, I think. I suppose. It’s been an adjustment.”

  George wasn’t sure she’d ever heard such a vague answer from her friend. “Marriage is treating you well? Is marriage a distant cousin you haven’t seen in some time? Really, Jack. Certainly you have a better answer than marriage is treating you well.”

  “Have you talked to Sabre?”