“Leave?” She sounded confused. Murder could do that to one. “But, h-he might need help.”
“I’m afraid he’s beyond anyone’s assistance now, darling. We must hurry.” He kept his tones soothing, in part, to stave off his own panic. He pried her hands from a pearl-handled knife deeply embedded in the baron’s chest and pulled her to her feet. Her light-colored gloves were saturated. Somehow, he had to get her home with no one the wiser. He stripped her gloves away. “Thank the devil, your frock is dark,” he said, as he slipped off his greatcoat and swept it around her shoulders and tied it in place. “Still, this will help matters.” He kept up a low commentary, not caring, or even knowing, whether he made sense. He quickly surveyed the area but didn’t see a reticule, or a bag of any kind.
No doubt Liverpool would hear of Stanford’s demise within the hour and then they would be trapped. His mind worked furiously on a strategy to evacuate London even while tugging Gabriella by the hand. They dashed back down the long, choking corridor toward the way they’d entered. The only sound, their steps shuffling on the wood floors.
Just feet from escape, voices echoed, and James’s blood rushed hot. He couldn’t tell where the voices were coming from, but suspected it was from the same hall he’d seen his wife emerging from the other night. He feared Liverpool had already been notified. But how?
“I’m afraid we’re out of time, darling.” He spun abruptly and, bending low, pressed his shoulder in her abdomen, effectively tossing her over his shoulder. He made good time, yet his concern surged—not a word sounded from Gabriella. No protest, no complaint, no remonstration of his ungentlemanly manhandling of her. That was perhaps the worst.
He reached the alley to see the rain now coming down in earnest. The voices behind grew louder, and indeed, he recognized Liverpool’s. James rushed into the deluge, running for the hack. He jerked the door back and tossed his wife inside. “Take her to where you picked her up,” he told the cabby. “Wait, drop her in the mews behind. I’ll meet her there. Don’t talk to anyone.” James tossed him another shilling.
Gabriella jerked. “No!”
He stared at her stunned. “What?”
“Hope Street,” she said faintly.
Denying her anything with that haunted look in her eyes was beyond him. “All right. Hope Street, sir. Triple your wages if you get her there within fifteen minutes.”
The cabby answered by way of capping his flask and snapping the reins.
James flew onto his mount and set off in a trot, taking a different route. He had a household to prepare.
Thirty-Four
James threw the reins to a groom and ran into the house. “Diggs, have Brita pack a bag for her mistress. Don’t forget Lady Macbeth. Time is of the essence. I wish to leave within fifteen minutes. Have Connor meet me at Paddington Street with the phaeton. Hood up,” he added in a quick afterthought. “I’ll be driving myself. Send Potts to my chamber.” He flung out the instructions like quickly hurled knives. He pounded up the stairs, leaving Diggs gaping. “Time is wasting,” he yelled over the banister.
“Oh, good. You’re here,” he said to Potts. He stripped off his frockcoat, tossing it on the bed. He glanced down at his breeches to see the knees saturated with Stanford’s blood. “Pack a valise.”
A gurgle sounded and James looked up.
Potts’s normally unshakeable façade was stark white.
James snapped his fingers within inches of his valet’s nose. “Pott’s. This is no time to swoon. Just a valise if you please,” he reiterated. “I’ve no time to waste.”
A noise sounded from the adjoining door and James hurried over and peered in. He was met with a frantic Lady Macbeth. He scooped up the tiny dog and saw Brita dragging out a trunk.
“Just a small bag for your mistress,” he said. “You may finish the trunk later.” Had it been within his capability, he would have laughed at her appalled expression. Instead, he barked out more orders. “I shall need the dog’s lead… and food. I’ve no idea what Lady Huntley sees fit to feed this mongrel.” He pushed the door shut and dropped Lady Macbeth on his bed and stripped off his boots and bloody breeches, and with Pott’s assistance, finished dressing in record time.
Rain pelted the windowpanes, but for once, he relished its advantage.
He left Potts to finish assembling his clothes and hurried down to his study. From the safe, he retrieved a pouch of coins and two loaded pistols. He met Diggs in the foyer. A minute later, the two valises were at his feet. He placed the money and guns in his, and almost comically, Lady Macbeth sat alert in his butler’s gnarled hands, her lead attached. James took up the dog. “An umbrella. Quickly.” Connor entered the front door, dripping rain. “Ah, good. I need you to carry the bags. We’ll leave by way of the terrace.” To Diggs, “If anyone comes round asking after Lady Huntley, you will inform them she…” what? “… you’ll tell them she has the morning sickness and has retired to the country,” he said with an inward wince. She would kill him, but what choice had he?
“My lord,” Potts said sharply from above. “Your frockcoat. You simply cannot leave this house without it.”
James glanced down at the soft lavender of his waistcoat and shook his head. “How remiss of me.”
Potts glided down. “I could not hold up my head,” he muttered, his disgust emanating, showing no sign of his previous attack of the vapors.
James handed Lady Macbeth to Diggs and slipped into the dark wool Potts held open. “Is there anything to put over her ladyship to keep her dry?” And, again, the urge to break out in hysterical laughter rippled through him at the absurdity of the words coming out of his mouth.
Brita appeared from behind the grand staircase, holding a small wrap. “Lady Huntley didn’t wish to make Lady Macbeth into one of those spectacles like Lady Dankworth’s pugs,” she said. “But she was aware of a need to protect the pooch from England’s damp weather.” She moved forward and wrapped Lady Macbeth in a scrap of wool and handed her to James.
“Thank you, Brita. Pack the trunk for your mistress. I shall send word when she is ready for you.” He glanced at Connor. “Let us go.”
The door knocker dropped an ominous echo through the hall, and James froze. “I suspect Liverpool couldn’t resist an early visit. Remember what I told you,” he said in a hushed tone, spearing Diggs with a scowl. “Connor, get the bags. We’ll leave by way of the library.”
Diggs stopped him. “Hold on. Your umbrella, my lord, and your hat.”
