The Light in the Duke's Shadow: A Historical Regency Romance Book Page 4

  Lord Portland had already escaped out into the night, and Jules silently cursed. If the man got out onto the streets or in a carriage, it was unlikely that Jules could keep track of him. He strode quickly out the front door as his breath came in short bursts more from excitement than from labour.

  Movement caught Jules’ eye, and he strode purposefully towards Lord Portland’s retreating figure. The man had a good head start on Jules, but Jules was just thankful that Lord Portland had been delayed in leaving long enough for Jules to catch up to him. Jules slowed his steps when he reached the sidewalk, sidestepping a carriage that pulled up and giving the coachman a nod of his head.

  Jules heard the occupants of the carriage remark on how cold the air was for April, and indeed Jules’ breath ghosted out in front of his face. The chill of the cold months had yet to let go fully, but soon enough the warmth of summer would send all the gentry fleeing to their country homes or abroad. Jules rather liked the cool months even with the social obligations of festive parties to attend.

  The street lamp that Jules walked under provided little light. What little light it did send cascading to the ground seemed to be swept away by the growing fog that lay along the ground. Before long the fog would brush up against the houses and rise upward towards the doors and windows as if eager to get inside.

  Lord Portland, oblivious to Jules’ presence, turned and disappeared around a corner. Jules groaned inwardly and feared that perhaps the man had seen him after all and now would vanish into one of the buildings where Jules could not follow. Jules quickened his pace as much as he dared as the fog lapped at his boots.

  When he got to the spot where Lord Portland had disappeared, Jules’ heart sank. The man had turned down an alley, but even as Jules peered into the deep, dark space, he could make out no movement. The alley went from being merely poorly lit to complete darkness beyond. It was too dark to tell if Lord Portland were there or not. A voice in Jules’ mind that sounded very much like his mother told him he should go back and not venture into such a place.

  Jules took a breath and stepped off into the alley hoping that boldness would be a ward against anything that might lurk in the shadows. Even in this well-off section of town, cutthroats and thieves were never far away. Yet, Lord Portland had not seemed afraid when he entered the alley, and Jules was determined that he should not be so either.

  However, even as Jules strode down the alley, with the only sounds echoing back to him his own footfalls, he realised his folly. If Lord Portland had been in the alley, Jules would have heard his boots on the stones. Yet, Jules had heard nothing until his own feet made a sound against the stones.

  Uneasiness settled over Jules. He pondered calling out but kept silent out of caution. If he could barely see, then perhaps any that waited in the alley for prey would be equally at a disadvantage. Jules had no interest in making their sport easier for them.

  Momentarily Jules thought that perhaps Lord Portland might have met a fate such as that. Perhaps as the man turned down the alley, he had been assaulted. Jules shook the idea away. There had been scant seconds between the man’s disappearance and Jules’ arrival at the alley. He would have heard something of the struggle or aftermath, but he had not.

  What little light that came from the street and an overhead window faded towards the back of the alley. There the alley lay cold and dark and waiting. The fog was thick in the air in the alley, and Jules scanned the shadows of its faintly lit portion. Nothing moved; everything waited, including Jules.

  Lord Portland had turned down this alley – Jules was sure of it. Jules had passed no doors that he could discern, so the errant Lord he sought had to be further down the alleyway. Jules took a deep breath which he regretted as a scent accosted his nostrils, and he covered his mouth and nose with the sleeve of his coat.

  He walked on and was swallowed up by the darkest part of the alley as well. Jules paused and waited for his eyes to adjust. He was just beginning to pick out shapes when he heard a noise that seemed to be behind him, or perhaps it was to his right. Jules could not tell where the grinding noise came from.

  Fear laced through Jules. His mind screamed that he had stumbled into a trap. Oh, how his father would scold him for this if he were here. How could he have been so dull as to walk into a situation such as this? Only a common fool would go into a situation that put him at such a complete disadvantage, his father would have said.

  Jules turned to leave, but someone hit him from the side, his right side. Jules never saw the movement. He felt the weight hit him across his shoulders, his head. There were shoes, heavy and hard slamming his head into the stones of the alley. He tried to cry out but found his head slammed against the stones once more.

  With all his might, Jules shoved against the legs that assaulted him, the hardness of the shoes catching his arm. The person cursed, but Jules could barely hear from the ringing in his ears where his head had been slammed against the stones. As the ringing subsided slightly, Jules dragged himself up to his feet. He did not get far in his attempt to escape.

  The person was there again. Jules could almost feel them like a spirit haunting him. Their breath practically scalded his skin as he anticipated the next blow, but the blow did not come.

  A burning sensation between his ribs seared through him, and Jules howled in pain. His voice sounded like that of a wounded animal, and he scarcely knew what had happened until he stumbled back off the blade that caught just a glint of the light from the overhead window before the curtain was pulled hurriedly shut. A blow landed against his head, and something wet dripped into his eyes.

  Oh, if only that shaft of light had hit his attacker. Jules fought against the injustice of it all. Truth should lead to redemption, not death. Was this folly or plot? Jules’ mind raced as he sought to unravel all the clues before he met what now seemed his inevitable demise. He just wanted to know the truth.

  The world was off-balance and rolling beneath Jules’ feet, much like a rowboat when he was a child. He had fallen out of that boat, learning his lesson well. How he had hated being on the water.

  Jules spat out the warm, bitter liquid that filled his mouth. He reached out a hand but did not know what he was reaching for. Was that blood? Or some other internal juice that Jules could not identify? Jules imagined himself choking on it and gasped to suck in more air.

  The more afraid he became, the more his blood pumped, and Jules could feel it draining away out the wound in his side. No matter how he sought to calm himself, his body thought better of it and sent the energy through his limbs to keep him moving. There was a noise near him, dull because of the blood rushing in his ears, but it was there.

  Another blow against his head sent Jules down to his knees and finally over onto the stones. He lay there gasping. Whoever had assaulted him ran past his head. Jules blinked at the sight of the feet. Wooden shoes? A lowly sort then, Jules thought just before his eyelids flitted shut.

  Was he dead? Jules pondered and judged himself alive. Surely death would not be so painful as this. What was it the poets all said about death’s respite and peaceful dreaming?

  Jules coughed against the dirt of the stones, groaning as the sensation sent pain racing through his muscles and bones. There, he was alive. Jules thought for a brief moment what a horrible fate it was to be alive. Why had death not shown him the courtesy of his parents? Why was he forced to stay here and endure this?

  Truth whispered in Jules’ mind. Jules put his palms flat on the stones and pushed upward. His arms shook with the effort, but his knees held against the stones, and Jules slowly pushed himself up to a kneeling position. The window overhead ignored him, and Jules closed his eyes for a moment. He breathed in the rank air and allowed his body a rest.

  His attacker could return and find him still breathing. The man would most likely finish the job if he did, but Jules was not as concerned about that as he was about whether he could stand. The idea of it seemed absurd, but Jules remembered how the stones had rolle
d under his feet earlier.

  There was a soft noise, a subtle noise. Jules tried to hear it over the drumbeat of his blood. He strained. What was that noise? He thought he heard a woman’s voice. What was she saying? Was it his mother?

  No, Jules did not suppose his mother would deem to be caught in such a place as this. Jules frowned. Why had he come to this place? Why had he not just stayed in the country and withered away? His mind whispered all the more insistent the word truth to him.

  Jules nodded as if to let his mind know that he was aware. Pushing himself upward, his muscles shaking and complaining of the abuse, Jules slowly stood.

  Upon gaining his feet, he lost them almost immediately to an errant step. Jules stumbled sideways, fought to get his feet untangled, and fell into a wooden crate.

  “Thank you,” Jules whispered to the wooden crate. “Fine catch, old man,” he whispered as he laid his head against the crate’s rough surface. It felt brittle, but it had held.

  Jules used the crate to balance himself. For a long moment, he stood there unsure if he could move, unaware of time passing. Had it been a century that he stood? The buildings still stood unchanged.

  Slowly Jules put his feet forward, one after the other. The safety of his old wooden friend left behind. He held his hands out like he had done on the frozen pond that was on his family’s country estate. The fog slid along the tops of his boots, lapping at his trousers.

  Jules put his feet down cautiously. There were noises, but Jules shut them out. He could not concentrate on them. He had to walk forward. There was light ahead, and the light was safety. Truth needed the light.

  If his attacker chose to come back and finish his handiwork, then Jules had no control over that. All he had control over was keeping his balance, even as the ground fought to shake him off.

  It seemed to tilt and turn at random, and Jules marvelled that the buildings were not crumbling with how the earth was buckling under him. How did the stones at his feet not break asunder?

  Just a few more feet and all would be well. He would see his parents and everything would be fine. Jules shook his head to clear the thoughts, but they crowded back in. Half of them screaming for him to rest, the other half shouting noisily for him to push on.

  There comes a point where reason becomes a distant memory. Perhaps Jules had left reason behind a long time ago, but he certainly could not find it now. Was there any logic to the world?

  There was movement, and Jules’ blood gushed and sloshed. It poured over his fingers, and it blinded his right eye. He knew that more of it would lie on the ground than in his veins. Yet, it was fine. Before him, an angel appeared, and Jules fell into her. He was safe at last.

  Chapter 3

  “Penelope!” her mother screamed after her. There were other sounds too, but Penelope was not concerned with the sounds of her mother’s feet behind her. Or the shouts of people from the house to find out what was going on.

  Penelope ignored it all and ran. Someone needed help. This was no time to dawdle and her mother would weeble-wobble as to what to do until someone told her the proper thing. By the time that happened, the person in need might very well be dead.

  At the corner of the building, Penelope stopped and drew in a quick breath. The alley was dark and looked just the sort that featured in one of her mother’s stories of horrible things that could happen to young ladies in London. Penelope drew herself up and rushed forward a few steps.

  “Hello?” Penelope called both hoping to hear some sound and also hoping not to hear anything. Perhaps it was all just some scuffle, and the participants had scattered when they realised that they might have been overheard.

  There was a loud clatter, and Penelope screamed as a man lurched out of the shadows. He looked hurt, and Penelope reached out to him. He gave her an odd look as he stumbled forward. “An angel,” he said softly. “I guess this is Heaven then.”

  Penelope’s mouth opened to inform the man he was very much alive, but his eyes rolled back into his head, and he fell forward onto her. Penelope tried to catch the man but found him much larger than her. “Oh no,” Penelope whispered as she found herself stumbling backward.

  Just then her mother rounded the corner. Penelope saw her mother’s mouth open up in a scream. Penelope said, “Help me get him off.” Penelope was slowly being crushed beneath the large man as he sank to the ground, taking a startled Penelope with him.

  “Get off of her you scoundrel,” Lady Winchester scolded as she hit the unconscious man.

  Penelope sighed. “Mother, he is injured. Do not call the guard down on him,” she said as she wriggled out from under the man. He slumped down onto the ground unceremoniously. Penelope explained, “Look at his clothes.”

  Penelope knelt back down by the man’s form. With much effort, she turned him over so they could see his face. Though it was covered in blood, Penelope felt her heart leap in its chest. His dark hair had come out of whatever tie had held it and spread out on the stones behind him and over his face. Penelope pushed the man’s hair to the side gently, revealing more of his face, and she was entranced, forgetting her mother’s presence until the woman spoke.

  “It’s Lord Daventry, the Duke of Richmond,” Lady Winchester said in horror. “Someone has murdered him.”

  “No, he’s still alive,” Penelope said as the man’s chest rose and fell. “Mother, calm yourself,” she said as Lady Winchester began to breathe faster and faster.

  Lady Winchester nodded. “What shall we do?”

  “It is our duty as women of England and members of society to make sure that the Duke is cared for and safe,” Penelope said as she touted some of her mother’s repetitive lessons on the obligations of society back to the woman.

  Lady Winchester gasped. “What can we do? We are not doctors.” Lady Winchester waved her hand at the man’s injures. “He is in need of a clinic.”

  “The closest clinic is an hour further than our home. We can send for a doctor while the Duke is looked after. Or would you prefer that we let him lie here on the cold stones and bleed to death?” Penelope shook her head at her mother. “Go tell the coachman to pull the carriage to the entrance of the alley.”

  Lady Winchester said, “Your father will heartily not approve of this. The Duke of Richmond is rumoured to have killed his parents. The scandal of that alone—”

  “As if we are above reproach,” Penelope chided her mother. “Father’s ineptitude with business and his eagerness for the bottle has put us in poor regard. Should we act accordingly and just leave a man to die?”

  Penelope could see the pain in her mother’s face at the words. “Your father does his best,” Lady Winchester said.

  “And we can talk about Father’s best later,” Penelope said. “Kindness and mercy were what you always told me were the most important things in this world. Shall we now give up on them as well?”

  Lady Winchester looked down at the man and sighed. “What you say is reasonable, and we should do our duty to society.”

  “Thank you,” Penelope said. She looked up at her mother and smiled at the woman.

  Lady Winchester’s eyes were on the man lying on the stones. She drew herself up, her eyes lingering on the fallen Duke before she looked at Penelope. “I shall have the carriage brought here,” Lady Winchester said.

  “I shall stay here with him in case he wakes again,” Penelope said as she straightened the man’s coat much like a mother fretting with a child’s clothing.

  Lady Winchester looked reluctant to leave, but she held her shoulders back and walked away from Penelope all the same. Penelope watched her mother leave and then looked back down at the nobleman lying on the cobblestones. She slipped her hand under his head. “It must be cold,” Penelope whispered. She looked down the alley on hearing a sound but could see nothing moving. Penelope shivered. “I hope whoever attacked you is gone.”

  The man laid still and quiet. If not for the rise and fall of his chest, Penelope might have thought him already de
ad. As it was, he looked like he was in a very deep sleep. Penelope hoped that he would wake from his slumber. This was not some childhood fairy tale, and Penelope could see the blood dimly in the light that spilled over into the mouth of the alleyway from the street lamps.