Winston lowered his attention to his nearly empty glass. Scarsdale obviously planned to spend the night here, as many of Winston’s friends had announced in the past few hours.

  He shifted in his chair, feeling out of place. His friend’s casual attitude toward intimacy was completely opposed to his own. He waved a bottle of French brandy at Berringer. “Another round?”

  Berringer shook his head. “Not for me, I’m afraid. His grace wants to go riding at first light.”

  Winston was disappointed but understood. “Ah well, better to go home with a clear head than risk falling off tomorrow on horseback.”

  Berringer agreed and stood. “I’ll see you tomorrow perhaps.”

  Winston nodded and glanced at his remaining companions. Both had women perched on their knees. Pinner and Brandestock were quite accustomed to that sort of company. But Winston was not, and being the third wheel held no appeal for him at all. His friends would probably make use of one of the brothel bedchambers above later, too, and he’d be left alone sitting here drowning his sorrows.

  But no matter how much he consumed, food and spirits, Winston was still left to wrestle with his guilty conscience.

  He’d been curt with Charlotte, rude, and she had no idea why.

  He hardly knew what he’d been about until he’d had time to reflect. The harsh, dismissive lies he’d let tumble from his lips in her presence were not even remotely true.

  But the last woman he’d wanted to see today was the woman he couldn’t seem to forget. And the fact that Charlotte’s face had lit up upon seeing him, too, hadn’t helped improve his mood. Because he’d known being around her would be wholly unwise for a man about to marry another. Charlotte had no idea the confusion she caused in him.

  And the lust. Damned if he didn’t wonder if giving up his celibacy for one night with her might not ruin him for his long-expected marriage.

  But he couldn’t do that. Ruin Charlotte. Pursue Charlotte. Betray Elizabeth.

  He could never not marry Elizabeth. The price would be too high if what he felt for Charlotte was merely an aberration of feeling. And he utterly hated that he was doubting himself on the cusp of the most important change in his life.

  “Gentlemen. I’m heading off home,” he announced. He’d find no answers here or in an empty glass tonight.

  “Oh, no,” Brandestock cried. “You should stay. Find yourself a woman and end the night with a bang or two.”

  He fought to keep his face from coloring. “I came only for the beef and brandy.”

  “Both were excellent,” Pinner agreed. “But the beauties are worth staying for, too. Don’t you think?”

  “Another time,” Winston answered with a forced laugh and a wave as he strode out of the brothel, shoulders back, stride committed to leaving.

  The fact that he’d never once lain with a woman had escaped his friends’ notice, something for which he was forever grateful. He expected them to tease him mercilessly, which would be utterly humiliating. He’d prefer his friends believed him more experienced like them.

  He collected his coat and hat from the doorman and asked for his carriage to be brought up promptly. While he was waiting, Pinner and Brandestock ushered their lady friends up the nearby set of stairs.

  Winston envied them their ease with seducing women. It was a skill he feared he might never learn.

  A footman returned, appearing apologetic even before he spoke. “I’m sorry, my lord. There’s no carriage of yours waiting out there.”

  He tugged on his gloves. “Damn it all. I specifically asked them to remain until midnight.”

  “I looked in all the usual places but there are actually few carriages waiting in the road outside.” The fellow scratched his head. “Shall I flag down a hack for you, my lord, or would you prefer to wait in the salon until yours returns?”

  He glanced behind him, seeing if anyone he had an acquaintance with might be leaving at that moment. He should have left with Berringer when he had a chance, but he’d expected his carriage to be out there still. “No, I won’t stay. Please do see what you can find for me.”

  The footman scurried back outside, and Winston did consider returning to the salon and having another drink while he waited, but there was no one left he wanted to talk to.

  And if he sat alone drinking, he would only return to remonstrating with himself for thinking about Charlotte Waters again.

  And the worst thing was…he liked thinking about her.

  Her life and adventures abroad fascinated him. Not out of any longing to travel himself, he’d taken a grand tour as a younger man, but to know how she felt about the sights that she’d seen.

  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  He had Elizabeth to go home to. He ought to want that more than to have Charlotte in charity with him again. But he’d whipped her with the lash of his bad mood at the menagerie that very afternoon. He was certain he was the last man she’d want to talk to again.

  A burst of raucous masculine laughter reached him from beyond the velvet curtains dividing the club. A woman squealed with delight in response. Things were becoming rowdy in the salon already. They usually did at this hour. Definitely time he headed for home and his bachelor’s bed.

  Since the footman seemed to be taking too long, and there was no other servant to complain to about it, Winston let himself out of the club and stopped on the quiet street out front to look for the fellow.

  Glancing left and right along the shadowed road, he saw no carriages, and no servants belonging to Madam Bradshaw’s either. Odd for this time of night…and where the devil had the footman disappeared to? Was he even trying to find him a carriage?

  Winston took a few steps into the dark street and instantly became aware of a sound nearby.

  A gasp.

  A groan.

  He rolled his eyes. Having had enough of the amorous antics inside Madam Bradshaw’s, he had no wish to be subjected to the sound of them out here. It was probably the footman from Bradshaw’s with a lady of the night.

  And yet there was a subtle difference… He peered into the dark where the grunts and groans seemed to originate. The gasps had become more of a gag now. He took a few more steps in that direction, and then more again.

  The sound came from an alleyway that ran along the side of Bradshaw’s. Halfway down the establishment’s side wall, a couple wrestled in the grip of rough lust.

  But then a chill of unease swept over him.

  Something wasn’t quite right about the pair and what they were doing. He may not have taken a woman to bed, or up against a wall, either, but he understood enough of intimacy to know that the pair were not having sex after all.

  Both of them were male, too.

  One of them fell to the ground untidily. Spent?

  No.

  He was injured…or mayhap dead.

  “The watch is on the way,” Winston called out, lying in the hope of scaring off the one who remained on his feet.

  The fellow turned slowly to look at him—and Winston’s blood ran cold. He sensed he was a threat even without seeing the man’s face clearly.

  Winston took a step back and turned, intending to return to the brothel and raise the alarm. He was only one man facing an unknown assailant without a weapon upon him to defend himself.

  Not even a parasol.

  Charlotte would not be happy when she learned he hadn’t carried anything he could use as a weapon out with him tonight.

  He’d gone a handful of steps before another shadowy figure appeared directly before him. Blocking his way back to Madam Bradshaw’s doorway.

  Someone chuckled.

  “We’ve been waiting for you, Lord Hurlston,” the man said. “We’ll be quicker this time. No chance of escape tonight.”

  A chill went through him because, in the moonlight, Winston could just make out that the fellow was holding a long, tapered knife. He turned suddenly, remembering there was a man in the alley behind his back, too.

  The pair were here to kill him. Charlotte had warned him he was in danger, and he really should have believed her.

  Winston darted sideways, putting himself in the middle of the street, but unfortunately it placed him farther from Bradshaw’s front door. He frequented none of the other businesses on this street, and all others were shut up tight for the night.

  When the pair followed, stalking him, Winston gulped in the grip of panic. These men seemed about the same size and shape as the ones who’d attacked him without provocation in Green Park. Then, their attack had been sudden and unexpected, and he’d barely survived. His fists had been no match for this pair last time, and he’d had Charlotte, too. They had the element of surprise yet again, but tonight they seemed to want to torment him first with the threat of what was to come.

  When he saw two other men emerging from the shadows and join the slow stalking of him, Winston figured they were not here to help him do anything but to die faster. There would be no reasoning with them for mercy. No bargain to be made. No Charlotte brandishing her parasol at the last moment to beat them into submission and force them to flee instead.

  There’s no shame in running if you’re badly outnumbered.

  Winston swallowed, remembering Charlotte’s words after the last attack. When she’d uttered them that first time, he’d felt it cowardly to run away from any fight. But now, alone in the dark—with the odds stacked even further against him—he wasn’t sure he hadn’t been stupid to stand his ground and take a beating he’d not deserved the first time.

  He was the bloody earl of Hurlston. A man with responsibilities to his family, his tenants. A future as a husband. He couldn’t die in the gutter. Too many depended on him to make their lives better.

  If Charlotte thought he should have run when he’d been attacked in Green Park by three, what would she think he should do now that he was so surrounded by four and without a weapon still?

  He glanced at the fellows drawing closer, intending to surround him and prevent his escape.

  Run now and don’t look back!

  “Good advice,” he said out loud.

  Winston shot off into the dark, leaving behind a startled burst of shouts from his would-be attackers. A shot rang out, and he stumbled, but his legs propelled him to greater speed. In school, he’d been one of the fastest sprinters whenever there had been footraces against his classmates. As an adult, he’d kept reasonably fit, but he’d not run anywhere in years. He’d not had reason to.

  He ran hard, veered to the left and then right, and then tacked down a shortcut he knew well. St. James’ Square was a blur as he raced through it, taking the most direct path home. He couldn’t hear any sign of pursuit yet, but that didn’t mean they were not following.

  They’d followed him to Bradshaw’s.

  They’d been waiting for him to come out so they could end him, they’d said.

  They knew who he was—and likely where he was heading, too.

  Winston saw a carriage coming toward him just then. A great lumbering barouche headed God knew where at this time of night. He quickly darted behind it, hoping its bulk would hide his change of direction, and once past, darted down a servants’ staircase tucked beneath a pair of badly painted front doors, panting hard.

  He needed a moment to think.

  He wiped his sweaty face, desperately afraid that his luck had finally run out, and sucked in a deep breath.

  He nearly groaned out loud because he’d forgotten all about his tender ribs in his mad dash. He hugged his chest and made himself breath shallow so they hurt less.

  He glanced around, trying to orientate himself. He’d run a good way home. He had a battalion of servants in his town house, and weapons, too. All he had to do was keep going.

  If he could.

  He carefully peeked out to look at the street again. The lumbering carriage had stopped a short distance away, and the coachman was leaning down from his perch. Winston realized the fellow was talking to someone standing beside the carriage.

  One of Winston’s pursuers?

  No, more than one. There were half a dozen men surrounding that carriage now.

  The coachman pointed down a road Winston had not taken. The men conferred and then rushed off in that direction.

  Winston sagged in relief at his brief reprieve, sent out a silent thanks as he watched the coach resume its journey down the dark street.

  But his safety was surely only temporary. Those men might get smart and turn around when they failed to find any sign of him ahead of them.

  If they found him, they would catch and kill him. The ribs that had been bruised were now complaining and it was becoming harder to breathe again.

  Those men knew where he lived and might be waiting for him. He couldn’t go home, or anywhere else he frequented often. If they’d waited for him at Bradshaw’s tonight, a last-minute decision on his part to attend, it was possible they might follow him to other places he went to as well.

  Yet he couldn’t hide here in the dark all night. The arrival of dawn would reveal him, a lord in fine clothing, as a man out of place in this part of Town.

  But where should he go if going home was just as dangerous a road to travel?

  He wiped the sweat from his brow again and absently dried his hand on his breeches. He needed to go somewhere he’d never been before. Somewhere he’d be safe until help could be summoned. But where was that?

  Where in London would the Earl of Hurlston never be expected to go? Certainly, he couldn’t go to any of his friends’ homes. He’d risk putting their lives in danger, too.

  No, he needed a place to lie low and take stock of this situation. There was only one place that sprang to mind—and he was absolutely sure no one would imagine he’d seek help there.

  He checked the street and slipped out of his hiding place and hurried in the opposite direction of home as fast as he could manage.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Charlotte was almost asleep when a scratch at her door woke her. “What is it,” she grumbled, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

  “Miss, there is a situation downstairs,” their butler, Davis, whispered through the door. “You must hurry!”

  Charlotte flew out of bed and threw a wrapper over her nightgown and shoved her feet into her slippers. “Is it Mama? Did she take another fall?”

  “Your mother is sound asleep still. I thought it best not to rouse her,” the butler confided.

  Charlotte hurried into the hall and shut the door behind her quietly. “Did Father cut himself with his penknife again and drip blood on her notes? The last time he was beside himself for ruining those precious words.”

  “No, miss, this does not concern your father, but there is blood. A stranger is at the door and is demanding to see only you,” Davis warned. “He would only say he’s Winston.”

  “Winston? Here?” Charlotte flew ahead of the butler and peered down the dark staircase at the entrance hall below. Yes, there was Lord Hurlston, standing in a pool of candlelight, leaning against a wall in her home. She nearly fainted to see him at this time of night but rushed downstairs to meet him, wondering why on earth he would call.

  When she got closer, she saw the blood the butler had mentioned splatted all over his clothes; his hands and face were smeared with it, too. She approached him slowly.

  He lifted his head and met her gaze with a deep sigh. “At last.”

  She drew closer, reaching out, but was terrified to touch him. “What happened?”

  “You were right,” he said, setting his head back against the wall. “Someone shot at me. I ran.”

  She gulped and put her fingertips lightly on his chest. “You ran? From where?”

  “Perhaps we had best get the gentleman into a chair first, miss, before you question him?”

  “I feel fine,” Winston promised. A ridiculous statement, given the way he looked. “Didn’t try to fight them this time as you warned me not to do. I heard you in my head, and I ran here to tell you—you were right. I think someone wants me dead now, too.”

  With the butler’s help, she guided Winston to a chaise near a smoldering fire and urged him to sit down. She could not see a wound in the firelight but there was so much blood everywhere, there was no doubt he was wounded. He seemed dazed, too, and as the butler lit candles about the room, she saw the pupils of his eyes were huge. “I’d say they almost succeeded.”

  “No. No. I ran away, so they couldn’t get me,” he promised, raking a hand through his hair. It came away bloodier than it had been, which had been bad to start with.

  Charlotte caught the earl’s wrist and held his hand up before his face. “Winston, there’s blood and it’s all over you.”

  He blinked several time. “How did that get there?”

  “I’d say from the wound on your head,” the butler murmured. “If I may take a look?” he asked quietly.

  Charlotte grasped Winston’s bloody hand in both of hers to keep him still. “See if you can find where the blood is coming from and how serious the wound might be. He might need a surgeon if the pistol shot penetrated his skull.”

  Winston jerked in her grip. Charlotte squeezed his hand, hoping it wasn’t the case at all.

  But when Davis tried to look though Winston’s hair, the earl shied away from the butler’s touch and his grip on Charlotte tightened. She gently eased to her feet and slipped around the earl and the chaise. “Perhaps you would permit me to inspect your head? I promise to be very gentle.”

  “You’re always gentle with me,” Winston murmured, but Charlotte heard his words slur. “More than I deserve.”

  Charlotte slowly lifted her hand toward Winston’s hair, discovering the dark strands coated in sticky redness. She worked her way slowly from front to back and discovered a long, tapered wound running across the surface of his skull on the right side, from front to back. “Here,” she said to the butler, pointing out the injury.

  “He has bled a lot, but it seems to me that the wound appears not very deep,” he murmured.

  Charlotte exhaled a pent-up breath. A flesh wound wouldn’t kill Winston if it didn’t fester. He would not need a surgeon for this, but it would need to be cleaned and the blood flow stopped. She met Winston’s gaze over his shoulder. “Do you have any other wounds besides this one? Do you have pain lower down your legs?”