Chapter 11

Eleven

CROSS BONES GRAVEYARD, LONDON - JUNE 12, 1816

CELINE

There were a thousand—a thousand, thousand reasons really—to stop following William Hart. I was wet and disheveled. I had just berated the man quite thoroughly in front of the entirety of his staff. He had proved entirely cognizant of my surveillance. I was enraged and embarrassed. The last time I was this angry, Gabriel had been alive to infuriate me. But William had never left the office at this time of day, at least not since I'd been observing him.

I followed at a greater distance than I had in previous days, hoping desperately I would not be caught. His pace was brisk and he moved with purpose, his arms swinging at his sides. It was almost a swagger. After days of observation, I would not have thought him capable of such confidence.

He clearly had a direction in mind, turning down first one side street then another. He kept to the edge of the Covent Garden hustle and bustle all the way across the river. With each turn, the area of town became more questionable.

Just when I was beginning to suspect he knew of my presence and was attempting to lose me, he came upon a short wrought iron fence.

He strode to the gate with intention, lifted the latch, and tugged at the gate itself. He wiggled it in its hinges until it slid open with an irritated creak. The motion was familiar to him. I approached at a cautious distance, slipping through unnoticed before the breeze blew the door closed.

The sign above the gate was worn with splinters missing and peeling paint. But it read "Cross Bones Graveyard."

This was nothing like Gabriel's carefully tended resting place. The graves here were marked with weather-beaten wooden crosses. Some were simply vertical sticks where the horizontal piece had fallen off. Several mounds of earth had no markings at all, though they bore all the indications of an inhabitant. Few and far between were the occasional headstone.

My stomach twisted in guilty revulsion, but I pressed forward. I slipped behind one tree until he passed the next, then I scurried to reach that one before he turned. Finally, he slowed, his gaze fixed on a headstone. I did not need to press closer to read it. I knew the name I would find there.

Adriane.

"Hello, sweetling." His baritone was thick with emotion as he knelt before the stone, heedless of the damp earth. He brushed some of the decaying growth off the top before tracing her name with his fingertips.

I could not make out details from my hiding place, but the stone was certainly nicer than any of the others in the vicinity. It still stood straight, proud, and was not overly worn. He was a regular visitor.

"I've been meaning to come by and see you, but I've been busy. It's no excuse, though, is it? The weather has been nice here, more sunshine than usual. I'm sure you would have something to say about that. But the clear skies mean it's easier to see the stars. I hope you can see them, too, where you are."

My heart twisted. I was not alone in my peculiar little habit. William Hart also spoke to his late love. Could he have his own little bird? Did the breeze answer him too?

He continued, "I'm being evasive, I know. I'm not here to chat about the weather. I don't suppose you remember that morning in Yorkshire? You went wandering in your bare feet and made it halfway to Rose Hall. Scared the life out of me. You came across Rycliffe's wife. The woman with the shite French accent?"

I bit back a laugh at the insult. There was no heat behind his words, if anything his tone carried amusement.

"I met her again. Only I didn't know it was her, I swear it. I kissed her, too, before I knew who she was. It was… it was a revelation. I'm sure you're cackling away right now. This is the sort of thing you would find hilarious.

"The next day, Rosehill paid me a visit, the beetle-headed ballock's brother. I thought he had come to drag me down the aisle, just for a moment. For that minute I thought… Well, that might not be such a terrible fate. She has unbelievably tragic taste in men, but so did you, and it doesn't make you a jot less lovable.

"But I was wrong. He was helping her in her bizarre endeavor to follow me indefinitely until she discovers… something. Haven't the foggiest what she's after. Something to do with Rycliffe, I expect.

"I learned today that she knew what he was and she still married him. She's still defending him. She knew how he hurt you the way he did. What is it about him? Why do you love him so much? Why can't you see what he is, what he does?"

This man… These were not the words of a killer. Were they? Even the hurt and outrage I heard in his rusty, bitter tone contained nothing of violence, nothing of death.

"It is damn ironic, is what it is. The first time in ages that I saw a woman and thought… well, anything really. And she's already his. Just like you were. Doesn't matter though. She was sure to be a disappointment. No one can hold a candle to you, sweetling."

It was such an intimate moment—one I had no business witnessing. But for the first time in seven years, I did not feel so alone. He loved her the way I loved Gabriel. And if I ever found his killer…

He was talking about Kit—Lord Leighton—now, inconsequential things about various clients. He was not going to confess to Gabriel's murder—not now. I followed my tree line back to the road as the sun began to kiss the horizon. After wriggling the gate in the same manner he had to get it open, I exited the graveyard and made my way back out to the London streets.

Few lamps were lit in this part of town. The buildings cast impossibly long shadows in the setting sun. It seemed later than I knew it to be, with the darkness spilling across the walkway.

I hadn't intended to be so far away from home, hadn't meant to follow him to such a distance. This was precisely the sort of situation Xander warned me to avoid. Not only had I intruded on a very private interaction and learned nothing of value, but I was going to get myself killed for my efforts.

I stepped quickly, with purpose, moving as fast as I could manage without drawing undue attention. I was grateful for the maid's uniform; it was certainly less conspicuous than my usual apparel. In my haste, the umbrella I still carried bumped against my shin occasionally. I was not used to traveling with such an item.

Already fewer people were on the streets than had been perhaps an hour before. The ones who were out seemed less savory in appearance than those I'd observed earlier.

I hadn't paid as much attention to the route as I should have. I was too occupied with my pursuit and had planned to follow him on his return journey. Now, I was less confident of the direction.

Two men rounded a corner just ahead. They were huddled together, sharing confidences. My steps slowed without permission, an unwitting demonstration of weakness that drew their attention.

My heart skipped with instinctive unease. Even from the distance of a few hundred paces, their interest was unmistakable. One took a step toward me. The other joined his advance, and they hurried to close the distance.

I could not continue forward. To my left was a blind alley. I could turn down it and hope they lost interest. That would leave me no escape if their excitement did not wane with lost sight.

While I considered my options, they had already halved the distance.

Two options left. I could gather my skirts and pull out the dagger strapped to my thigh—I could fight. Or I could run.

Gabriel's graveled voice rang through my mind. " Always flee. If you have a choice between fighting and fleeing, flee. " Pulling the knife would leave no time for flight.

Decision made, I turned back toward the cemetery and took off, sprinting faster than I ever had before. My feet pounded on the pavement.

And they weren't alone.

I didn't dare look back. The men were close enough to hear their harsh breaths. They were going to catch me. They would grab me. They would do unspeakable things to me.

The second half of Gabriel's instructions flicked through my mind between breaths. " If you can't flee, then fight, and do not fight fair. "

The move was instinctive. My feet planted and I spun, the umbrella I had nearly forgotten about clasped in both hands. Whack! My blind swing made contact with the side of a man's head and he went down. He landed in a crumpled heap at my feet.

Unfortunately, the hit jarred my grip and the taller man caught my weapon and tugged. I tripped over the injured one and stumbled forward but managed to retain my hold. Tightening my hands with everything I had, I yanked and twisted. I pulled it free and floundered backward slightly.

By the time I righted myself, the first man was staggering to his feet, his cheek bleeding. My heart was pounding too harshly in my ears to make out his words, but they weren't pleasant.

My gaze darted between them. I had never fought two men. Hell, I had never fought a single man with the intention of wounding him. And certainly never with an umbrella. My decade of fencing was only slightly better than useless.

The wounded one. Instinct told me to incapacitate him first. Suddenly, hours of foil practice came back to me.

Without warning, I thrust the point of the umbrella straight into his gut. There was nothing to foreshadow my motion. I managed to pierce flesh.

The umbrella tip wasn't sharp, not like my small sword, nor was it tipped like my practice foil. It hit the mark, and what followed wasn't pretty. My weapon dragged through the man's belly with a sickening squelching sound before my motion was aborted by the fabric, a few inches along the shaft.

It was a severe wound. It might even kill him. But it would be a slow death, infection rather than blood loss. All it would do now was slow him down.

I'd never had to pull my blade free from sinew. The umbrella didn't pull free the way I expected. Instead, his skin closed around it and it stuck. I had to yank much harder than intended to free it.

A rough hand grabbed my shoulder and yanked me back, distracted as I was by the unfamiliar feeling of pierced muscle and organ.

My other assailant. How had I forgotten him? It would be a costly mistake. I was left with my umbrella clasped in only one hand. My other arm was trapped in his hold.

My victim righted himself, hand clasped against his wound. The men were too close now. I couldn't get my arm back far enough to thrust.

This was it.

Time slowed and everything sharpened. Heavy breathing filled the air. Their scent filled my nose and lungs—liquor, piss, blood, and bile. They shared greasy brown hair, brown eyes, and a ruddy complexion. Brothers perhaps.

My rapers—murderers?—closed in on me.

Not like this.

I went limp, becoming dead weight in the uninjured one's grasp. My shoulder slipped through his hold, and I landed at their feet. I was grounded, but free, and I had space.

And a clear shot at a man's most vulnerable part.

I grabbed the umbrella with both hands and slammed it up decisively between the uninjured man's legs. The angle wasn't the best, but he crumpled at the waist, hands cupping his genitals.

I was lining up for another hit when the bleeding man was wrenched backward with a grunt.

Before I could decipher what had happened, a familiar baritone rang out.

"Evening, gents. What might you be up to?"

William .

Relief poured through me. Somehow, I knew without a doubt that I was safe.