Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction (Mackenzies & McBrides #9)(14)
He elbowed, jabbed, brought his fingers straight at eyes that glittered in the darkness. The men hid their cries of pain in grunts and curses—they must be used to attacking hapless victims in darkness and silence.
Alec ducked away from another blow and came up on his feet, his knife held ready. His back was to the river. The three men advanced with more confidence—Alec had nowhere to go.
To hell with being silent. Alec dragged in a breath and let out a Highland scream, one that had stricken terror into the British at Prestonpans, scattering King George’s men like leaves in the wind. He rushed at them, yelling like a demon, his knife raised to deliver killing blows.
The three men hesitated. They were backstreet thugs, going after easy marks—a soldier rushing at them with a murderous battle cry was beyond their ken.
Alec reached the first man and struck. His knife went through the man’s coat, cutting to the bone, then he was moving to the second.
Who wasn’t there. He and the third man had turned and fled down the shingle to deeper darkness, leaving their unlucky companion to Alec.
Alec took a step back and let his smile spread wide as he lifted his knife. “Shall we dance, laddie?”
The man had his hand on his arm, blood black on dirty fingers. His eyes were so wide, the whites glittered as pale smudges. He turned to flee and gibbered as he slipped on the gravel and went down on his knees.
Alec took two running steps at him. The man managed to gain his feet, and he loped off, limping, holding his arm. Alec stamped on the rocks beneath him, making the sound of giving chase and let himself laugh as the man’s struggling gait moved a little faster.
“Bastards,” Alec muttered, his laughter dying. “You all right, man?”
He crouched next to his drinking companion, finding him too still. Alarmed, Alec rolled him to his back, his alarm turning to dread when the man’s eyes stared motionlessly at the sky.
Alec opened the man’s coat, pressed his hand over his heart, which wasn’t beating.
“Bloody gobshites. Damn it.”
Alec balled his fist, sorrow and anger roiling through him. He didn’t even know the man’s name—the meeting had been set up by a smuggler called Gair, whom the Mackenzie brothers sometimes hired.
If Alec left the poor man here, he’d be stripped of everything by morning, his body left in the river. But if he went for help, he risked exposure. The London watchmen being what they were, they’d more likely arrest Alec for the murder than show any sympathy. And if Alec was arrested …
Well, he’d be a dead man. No more, no less. And he might bring death on the rest of his family.
But leaving a fellow human being to be picked over by vultures didn’t sit well with him. This man might have a wife and children waiting for him at home.
Alec leaned down, slung the man over his shoulder, and trudged with him back to the streets.
He left the unfortunate Glaswegian on the doorstep of a church—they’d know how to care for him and find his family. At least the man could rest the night and release his soul on hallowed ground.
At eight o’clock the next morning, not one minute later, Celia swept into Lady Flora’s house. She’d barely slept the previous night and had risen before her mother this morning, which had never happened in all the years of Celia’s life. Her mother had pressed a cool hand to Celia’s forehead and asked if she were well.
“Yes, yes,” Celia had said impatiently. “Lady Flora scolds if I’m late, is all.”
“That she does.” The duchess removed her hand, no caresses. “Don’t mind her, dear. She’s had a bereavement.”
Yes, they all tiptoed around Lady Flora, Celia reflected as the door closed behind her in Lady Flora’s echoing house. Not only because she was grieving for her daughter, Sophia, who’d been a lovely and charming young woman, but because Flora was what Celia’s father called a femme terrible—beautiful and frightening.
Celia immediately surrendered her portfolio to the footman and followed Rivers, who appeared at the head of the staircase to lead her up. Celia breathed hard as she reached the last landing, her stiff stomacher squeezing the air out of her.
Rivers, stately and not in the least winded, opened the door to the studio.
“Lady Celia Fotheringhay,” he announced as Celia pattered past him into the room. The footman came behind with the portfolio, placed it noiselessly on the table, and withdrew.
Mr. Finn was at the fireplace, his back to her, his hands stuck to the flames. The day was predicted to be warm, summer at last making its way to London, but a fire was always welcome to chase away the damp.
Rivers cleared his throat, but Mr. Finn did not turn, as though he could not absorb enough of the fire’s heat.
Celia nodded at Rivers, putting not only thanks and dismissal into the nod but the assurance that she would be well. Rivers made a cool bow before he departed, leaving the door open.
Mr. Finn continued to study the flames. His back in its plain coat conferred strength in its simple lines.
Celia could sketch him from behind, the square of his shoulders, the straight strength of the back that tapered to his waist. His coat, a faded brown wool with the patch Celia had noted yesterday, bore a pleated peplum to make the bottom of the coat fuller, as was fashion. The coat’s skirt touched thighs covered with slim broadcloth breeches. The brown of these was a different color from the coat, which meant he’d bought the pieces separately, likely from a secondhand shop, cobbling together a suit.