Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

" B egone." Now John's voice under her chest made Alara feel small. Even fragile.

She was glad he was so big now. Her calm did not extend to strangers disturbing their peace.

The man did not go. "He's waitin'," he insisted, unperturbed.

And then her John metamorphosed back into that distant creature she'd met earlier that night.

"Fine." With the barest squeeze of her waist, he stood, setting her on her feet in the same fluid motion, belying how much strength he had in his body.

"Her too." The man had a square, blunt head, tipped with stray locks of greasy hair tousled by the action of his hat. When he jerked his chin for Alara to go first, she could see one gnarled ear.

"No," said Lord Harman, apparently now unable to say large words. "She can go."

"Why, who is she?" The man's eyes scraped her up and down.

Alara felt Lord Harman tense beside her.

"Nobody. A tart from the revels."

"Really? She can tart on me." His square head split with a horrible grin.

"Do you need my attention, or not?" Brusque and brutish Harman.

The man seemed to respond to a nature like his own. "Come on."

The sounds of the revelry below poured up and over the edge of the balcony, horrifying Alara with just how close they were to everyone else at the party. Had been, all during their interlude.

Yet so far away no one saw as the coarse man waved Harman into the next gallery and left Alara behind.

Had he looked back, she might have mouthed to him, Are you sure? One word from him, one gesture, and she'd have stayed with him.

His coolness, she felt close to sure, was only an act put on for the benefit of their solitary audience.

Still, she keenly felt the ease with which he had put her aside, body and heart. For this was the truth of his destiny: to be needed by others. To serve. Perhaps he didn't even know that.

Alara well remembered the kindly Lord and Lady Ayles. They were two halves of one whole, determined in their pursuits, entertaining visitors of all sorts to the exclusion of everything else, even, sometimes, their oldest son.

Perhaps they grasped what her mother had grasped, what Alara had not. That marriage was more than feeling, more than passion. It was a life jointly lived, with more at stake than love.

Even if they were right, Alara wasn't about to let her English boy disappear all by himself.

The pounding in Harman's chest had everything to do with how near Alara was to danger and nothing to do with the passion they'd just shared.

It was his fault she was alone up here.

He had no old friends at this party who would send him such a messenger. Lord Zachary was the closest to that description, and he was downstairs trying to prevent his grandmother from reviving her terrible reputation from the previous century.

Ninette would have come herself.

It could only be Waresham, and there was nothing he could say that Alara should hear. Indeed, the more distance between them, the easier his heart would beat.

No wonder women had always bored him. They were snacks, while Alara was a feast.

He'd never lost himself that way in a woman's pleasure before. He could have spent all night feeling, seeing, tasting her pleasure, trying to find the limits of it the way they used to try to find the source of the stream that burbled through their valley.

In fact, just the vision of her, exhausted by his attentions, flushed and limp and quietly saying she'd like more, nearly made him spend in his trousers.

Or it had, before the unwelcome interruption, and he keenly felt the responsibility of ensuring that Alara got away safe. More than her reputation, it was her whole self that was valuable, worth shiploads of treasure, and though every step he took away from her pulled at him, he breathed easier knowing she was behind him as long as Waresham was in front.

He took care to close the door between the two private gallery boxes.

"Waresham," he said, swinging carelessly forward, trying to look as if he hadn't been interrupted in one of the crucial moments of his life.

His erstwhile friend looked worn and ragged. His military coat, which Harman had noted below, had a bloodstain under its arm. Perhaps the death wound of its previous owner. Inwardly Harman winced, wondering where Waresham had got the thing.

His hair was long, his eyes wild, and he wore a pistol in his belt.

It would be just like the man to prime it and nestle it close to his prick like that.

"Harman," came the response. "I believe you've seen a mutual acquaintance of ours tonight."

"I have." If Harman could keep his right side toward Waresham, he might dive over the chairs between them and knock that pistol out of the way before it did any damage. "Lord Zachary is below. Likely trying to persuade Lady Gadbury to pose for him. He's become obsessed with the idea of portraiture, did you know?"

"I am referring to a female cur we both know never gave us a true name."

Harman pretended confusion. "You can't still be thinking about that little miss from the country house? She's well gone, Waresham, surely you know that."

"Gone from Gravesend, but not London," the man said, grim as a gunshot.

His brawler settled into a chair between them, unfortunately on the same side as Harman's right hand.

"How do you know?" Harman needed to find another angle of attack. His start-and-stop studies hadn't included much brawling.

"I tracked her here, same as I would any wild animal." Waresham stepped to the edge of the box, looked over its rail to the churning chaos of the party below. "I lost sight of her. But she wouldn't come for no reason. The only person besides Zachary who knows her is you. And Zachary's wool-headed, with balls smaller than shillings and his brain smaller yet."

"I say." Giving up on the right-handed approach, Harman moved to get beside him. If he could get a shoulder under his ribs, he might heave the man over the edge before his worrisome companion did anything difficult. "I'd like to hear you tell him that."

"I don't have the time."

As if divining some of Harman's intention, Waresham pulled the pistol from his belt and waved it in his direction. "You'll keep your distance, if you don't mind."

"Happy to."

Damn the man to hell. How was he living? His father had disowned him, and no one in polite society received him any more. He was as cut off as a man could be without dropping him from a noose. Who was giving him money?

None of the possibilities were pleasant.

Waresham wagged his pistol barrel. "I'd swear on the King's own Bible I saw you talking to her. What did she say? She got close. Did she give you something?"

Harman spread his hands. "What would she give me?"

That sparked something in Waresham's cold eyes. "True," he acknowledged. "What would she?"

Silently cursing himself, Harman watched warily as Waresham nodded to his companion. "Search him."

If they found the ring in his pocket, Ninette's effort would be for nothing, with no salvation for the sad woman in blue.

But more difficult, Waresham would consider Harman to be an enemy. A danger.

And he might do something that would make it impossible for Harman to get back to the most important conversation in his life.

Creeping silently as she could to the edge of the box, Alara listened long enough to know the old friend was no friend at all. The way he said You'll keep your distance if you don't mind was far from friendly.

Looking down, she could not spot Lord Zachary's golden head anywhere. He could have gone. Perhaps his grandmother had needed his attention.

The swirl of color and noise was beyond anything she'd ever known in her life. She wished someone else would sort it out for her, give her time to grasp all the random motion and the crowds of people doing goodness-knew-what.

She couldn't wait.

The feeling she had was of her stomach dropping. It was the feeling of jumping off a boulder into a pond without knowing how deep it was. It was the opposite of flying; more like falling.

Why hadn't she sought out Lord Harman years ago? She could have sent him a note. She could have insisted on attending some affair where he was likely to be. She could have called on him.

What were the dictates of propriety when measured against a lifetime alone?

Her mother was right. She'd been timid, and she'd been waiting. She knew that now, and it shamed her. She'd been waiting for someone else to tell her how her life would be. Her mother, letters from Istanbul, or even Lord Harman himself.

Waiting had its place, was one way to be sure of things, but there was also a place for quick decisions, and this was it.

Even if she hadn't had a growing conviction that she and her John could find a common ground free of other brunettes, redheads, and—for good measure—blondes too; even if she hadn't had the inescapable feeling that she'd found her destiny here under a wide hat and tarnished lace; even without those, she must still do something, right now, for her boyish John who had built her so many bridges.

She had waited a lifetime to find him again; she could not lose him now. Not like this.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she slipped downstairs as quickly and quietly as she could, and twisted through the crowd. Mrs. Griffiths was nowhere in sight, but Alara didn't stop just because she was alone.

Her dancing judge had disappeared, along with several other would-be dance partners. But the Spaniard was absorbed in watching a juggler with a cascade of apples.

She didn't want the whole troupe of them following her upstairs. Who knew what the angry man would do if he heard a crowd approaching? Alara was sure he had some weapon.

The Spaniard had a weapon; he'd had a rapier. Now it was gone. Fighting down panic, Alara searched the walls. There it was, leaning against the wallpaper, ignored by the throng.

Too quick for thought, she darted over and grabbed it, and, holding it ahead of her, dashed back up the stairs.

The rapier was awkward on its belt; Alara took it out of its scabbard. Its edge gleamed.

Hiding it among her skirts, she hurried toward the door between gallery boxes. It felt awkward to hold the tip high enough not to drag on the ground; but her muscles had clenched so tight, she managed.

"Lord Harman?" She tapped on the thin panel of a door, then moved in without waiting for his answer.