Hawkhurst was here, in this very room, and he no longer looked like the man all of society knew, with his careful charm and lofty title. Gone was the lord of manners and means and in his place stood another, the dangerous edge of him magnified by a pure and utter menace, the knife fitting his fist as if he had been born with it and a stillness that was wild and fierce. She couldn’t take her eyes from the mesmerising transformation and she knew instinctively he had been in situations where he had not only saved lives, but taken them.
He was over at their table before she had blinked, his fists downing the first man who tried to stop him in one blow. The second man was more difficult and he gave fight, the knife in his hand drawn. Hawkhurst circled around, crouched, his own weapon held in a downward fashion, complete concentration marking every movement. The grace of a big man who was neither clumsy nor awkward, his actions measured in the sort of purpose only few might achieve. The shadows in him even at this distance were marked and she wondered how life had made a lord born to every luxury such a warrior. When Hawkhurst arched his knife straight into the neck of her hapless kidnapper she looked away.
Death had a face that was all of its own making and the blank visage of her husband as he took his final breath came to mind. Charles had cursed her with the venom she was so used to in his life, but as the blood slowed in his veins she had felt…nothing.
Unlike now, when the quick edge of living had her heart beating with abandon. There were still at least four opponents left. She had no idea how he might stop that many.
Henry Kerslake pulled out a pistol, but Hawkhurst was too quick, the weapon snatched out of his opponent’s hand with barely a movement and the butt cracking down upon him. He lay as still as death. Delsarte simply ran, disappearing through the door like a rat down a hole, though the innkeeper looked incensed, the lethal sharpness of a poker from the fire in hand as he advanced upon Hawkhurst.
Scrambling from her seat, Aurelia grabbed the only thing she could find: a large wooden bellows hanging on the wall behind her, its shape edged in steel. she had absolutely no practice in such a defence, but with Hawkhurst’s life on the line she was willing to try. The wood crunched down on the skull of the man nearest her.
And then it was over as quickly as it had begun, bodies groaning all over the room as Hawkhurst turned the innkeeper and Kerslake over to bind them with rope from his pocket. Any sign of the knife was gone, wiped off and secreted away, but as he stood she caught a small grimace of pain. She hoped he was not hurt and her eyes scoured his clothes for a wound, glad when she saw nothing untoward. He had made victory look so very easy she could barely believe any of it had happened, the work of a man who had long been trained in the art of warfare.
Gathering up the papers, Hawkhurst crossed to open the door where a group had formed in the corridor. Other guests, she supposed by their attire, their eyes widened. She heard the whispers of shock as Hawkhurst took the heavy bellows from her and ordered an older man to get a constable.
With her legs wobbling, she sat down upon the nearest seat, fingers threading through the fabric of a cushion. An ancient organza-wrap thread from Italy, she reasoned, given its sheen, and as out of place here as she was. Already she could see questions in Lord Hawkhurst’s eyes.
She wanted to get away, wanted to be out into the open and far from a place Delsarte used as a stop-off point. If she had guessed right, there would be some sort of sentry stationed. The innkeeper was one such suspect, his belligerence inciting other questions. The danger of it all was overwhelming.
Forty minutes later they were well on the road, the horse that carried them as run-down as the inn itself.
‘We’ll need to find some shelter before the storm comes.’ Hawkhurst tucked a scratchy grey blanket borrowed from the stables around them both in an effort to generate some warmth as he made this observation, though now that they were out of the range of others Aurelia felt worried for different reasons. He had not spoken at all and she knew that when they stopped there would be things he wished to ask.
The first spots of rain had him pulling the horse off the pathway to gain the cover of heavy bushes and immediately a small open barn not visible from the road could be seen.
He did not push through the shrubs, however, but circled the horse around the edge of them so that twigs were not broken within sight of the highway. Nothing left to chance, no easy clue of their whereabouts. In silence he dismounted and placed his palm flat against the dust of the earth, listening. To vibration, she supposed, the wind lifting his hair away from the tanned nape at his neck, a man completely in his element amidst nature.
‘Do you think anyone will follow?’ She kept her voice soft just in case.
‘I hope they think us well gone. If we leave before first light and strike north, it will be safer because they will seek us out on the London road.’
‘And we won’t be there?’
Standing, he reached up to help her off the horse. ‘In my experience it is often prudent to do exactly the opposite of what is expected, Aurelia.’
With his hands around her waist he slipped her downwards, the close warmth of contact after fright, beguiling. But there were questions behind the green of his eyes and she knew it was time to be honest with him.
She was pleased, therefore, when he let her go and stood back, for she might not have been able to be so forthcoming had he still touched her.
‘Delsarte and Kerslake were at the warehouse when I got there this morning.’ Stopping, she breathed, once and then twice before continuing. ‘My mother is French, as you know, but there are other things I have not said.’
He waited.
Aurelia wished her voice did not waver as it did, and she swallowed hard. ‘I told you once before that I went to visit Mama after Charles had died. I think people got the wrong impression about what I was doing there.’
‘How?’
‘They thought I was wealthy and blackmailed me to send money for the protection of my mother.’
‘And what of the letters you delivered to Dr Touillon?’
She hated the way she blushed, for she could feel the colour washing across her cheeks in a red bloom of shame.
‘You know about those?’ So it was true, all that they said of Stephen Hawkhurst. He was a part of the British Service and she had been caught like a small mouse in a very large trap. Her heart began to hammer, fast and then faster.
‘Intelligence has its own channels. With just a little effort you could be thrown into gaol and after taking into account your history…’ He let the rest slide.
‘I did not know what was inside the letters.’
This time his laughter had an edge to it that was more distant. ‘The law cares not a jot for perceived innocence, Aurelia, for it deals only in cold hard facts. You delivered information from France to one known in England for sedition and libel and good people will have suffered.’
Because his line in the sand was drawn so differently from her own she could barely voice their new understanding. ‘So after rescuing me from one fate you will deliver me into another?’
‘No, damn it. I am here to save you from yourself and in doing so we may both be sacrificed.’
His reply came like a dousing of icy cold water. ‘Why?’
‘God only knows, for I don’t,’ he returned and walked to the far edge of the shelter, both hands fisted by his side as if wrestling with a problem far greater than even the one he admitted. ‘You could be a traitor, and you are a liar. You had some hand in killing my cousin, and the man you work with, Henry Kerslake, is a known dissident. Yet here I am, running from a further group of them in an effort to keep you safe.’ He stopped and tipped his head into