Page 15

After a few minutes, the footman quietly withdrew to see to some household matter, leaving her alone with the soft smack of her slippers on the gleaming marble floor as she paced from end to end.

She had spent half the night rolling in bed, straining to devise some way—any way—to avoid this cursed stay with Lady Astley without damaging her reputation.

Tap, tap, tap.

Reaching the far end of the hall, she turned and walked back toward her trunk, skirts swishing with impatience.

Perhaps she could claim it was a gift from her papa, a reminder of their time together. Audrey winced immediately. Lie about her beloved father to appease that humorless old harpy?

She should state with confidence that the starling was her pet, and Lord Stirling had assured her it was acceptable to take the bird along.

Tap, tap, tap.

Egad, she was going to be disingenuous. If only she had been quicker of wit, she might have raised the subject with the earl the evening before. Then she could have declared something approaching the truth, rather than spinning Banbury tales in the entry hall this morning.

Flapper was her patient, and scrupulous care was necessary to ensure his delicate wing mended correctly. Otherwise, the little bird would be grounded for life. She had no choice but to stand her ground, even if it meant enduring every barbed remark Lady Astley might hurl at her.

Audrey did not doubt her ability to protect her feathered charge, but how much excruciating discourse would she have to endure before the older woman finally relented?

Tap, tap, tap.

The thing was … she did not wish it to turn into some grand debate. Flapper simply needed her fastidious treatment if he was ever to recover flight. It was that simple. But Lady Astley would not withdraw her objections. That much was certain.

Thunk.

Audrey halted in surprise, staring at the front door as the heavy wood panel shuddered on its hinges. The latch rattled with a dull clang, followed by a loud cracking sound from out in the street and a muffled exclamation that carried even through the steady roar of the rain.

Heart in her mouth, she hurried over, pressing her palm to the fogged glass and wiping it clear with her gloved hand to peer outside. Perhaps Lady Astley’s coachman⁠—

A muted shout cut through the drumming of rain on the flagstones, and Audrey startled, blinking rapidly at the sight of two figures locked in struggle on the slick roadway.

One of them held a cane, which he brought down in a sharp arc on his opponent’s outstretched arm, leaping back to avoid the gleam of a knife blade. He slipped in a deep puddle with a splash that must have soaked him through, landing hard on his buttocks before scrambling up again, boots sliding on the treacherous mud.

Audrey’s jaw dropped in horror. She hovered by the door, breath quickening, watching them fight in the rain as if frozen to the spot. Should she scream for the manservant to come help?

The figure with the cane swung to defend himself from another vicious lunge, and his hat flew off to reveal that unmistakable mop of wheat-colored curls, with brown back and sides.

“Lord Trafford!” Audrey gasped aloud, shock lancing through her. It was Lord Stirling’s heir fighting for his very life!

The cloaked attacker lunged forward with deadly precision, the knife’s point aimed at Trafford’s torso. Audrey bit back a scream as the young lord twisted away just in time, the blade slicing through empty air with lethal promise.

She tossed her head around frantically, searching for anything—anything—that might help him. Her gaze fell on the wall-mounted display of antique rapiers, shining coldly even in the dim hall light. Without another thought, she dashed across the marble floor, slippers skidding slightly as she reached up to lift one from its hooks.

Praying she would not be too late, Audrey spun on her heel, skirts flaring, and ran back to fling the front door open. The cold rain struck her full in the face like a slap, but she hardly noticed as she dashed down the steps into the street, sword clutched in both shaking hands.

She was no fencer, but it was long and seemed very sharp. She lunged forward in the simplest thrust her father had taught her years ago with a walking stick in the quiet of their country yard.

“Get back, you blackguard!” she shouted, voice cracking as she bore down on the cloaked man, who had his elbow drawn back for another deadly stab.

Both men turned, startled by her shrill command. For the briefest instant, she caught a flash of bright green and blue beneath the attacker’s overcoat—perhaps a scarf or a lining, wet and clinging in the downpour. But she discarded the detail immediately, focusing on what mattered most.

Pay attention! she scolded herself. This was no time to gape at clothing.

The unknown assailant blinked in surprise, features shadowed beneath the brim of his soaked hat, before spinning away with shocking agility to bolt into the rain.

To Audrey’s dismay, Lord Trafford immediately set off in pursuit. What the blazes was he about? The villain still had that lethal knife!

She let out a strangled, wordless plea, but to her immense relief, the cloaked figure vanished like a wraith into the pounding rain by the time Trafford reached the corner.