“Do not try to move yet. We are going to need help.”
She looked toward the brothel, hoping Fergus would reappear with the lantern so she could see what damage had been done by the footpads.
“Are you the angel?” the man asked.
“I am no—” He went limp in her arms. “Angel.”
Blast! Now what was she to do? She didn’t have the strength to drag him back to the alley. He was at least six feet tall and—she placed her hand against his chest to check for breathing—he was solid. Her hand began to wander and she snatched it back.
Her body was practically purring with him close. She eased his head to the ground and scooted away. She couldn’t be the only widow to miss intimacy, but that was no excuse for being familiar with a stranger, no matter how well formed he was.
“Mo chroi,” a harsh whisper carried on the air. “Where are you?”
Fergus. “In the street. Come quickly.”
They had decided if Fergus needed to address her on their clandestine outings, he would use the childhood pet name her mother had given her. She would rather no one know she was nobility, although she was a lady by marriage only.
It was strange to hear the gruff Scot refer to her as his heart, but it provided a cover story for them as well. She could play the role of disgruntled wife seeking out her husband at the brothel if need be.
Fergus emerged from the alley with the lantern held aloft. A golden halo surrounded his broad shoulders and highlighted his messy mop of brown hair. He scratched his whiskered cheek and frowned at the man lying in the mud. “Stuck the scoundrel in the gullet like I taught you, aye?”
“Dear Lord, no! Footpads attacked him.” She studied the man’s sculpted face and recognition sparked. Lady Eldridge, Helena’s cousin by marriage, had pointed him out just yesterday when they were shopping on Bond Street. Lord Thorne’s name and the circumstances of his jilting had been spoken at every gathering Helena had attended this last week.
“I know him.” She pushed to her feet and took the lantern. “Carry him to the carriage. We will take him home.”
“He’s no’ a stray cat,” he said as he stooped to heft Lord Thorne over his shoulder. Fergus never ignored her wishes, although he didn’t hesitate speaking his mind. “Can’t give him a dish o’ milk and a scratch under the chin and expect him to curl up on your lap.”
She aimed a mischievous grin at her companion. “Are you saying I cannot keep him? Pity that. I bet he would clean up nicely.”
Fergus laughed. “Luna would be jealous if you brought this alley cat home.”
Luna was the scraggly feline Helena had rescued days earlier during one of their midnight excursions. A bath and a few good meals had worked miracles with the animal’s appearance and disposition. But a cat was one thing. Helena didn’t need a man in her life to order her about, even if her body tended to disagree.
Fergus jostled the baron to get a better grip and the unconscious Lord Thorne groaned.
“Be careful. His ribs might be cracked.”
“He is no sack of flour, lass.”
“I know he must be heavy, but please. For me.” It was a long jaunt until they reached the Prestwick carriage waiting in a park outside the rookery for fear someone might recognize her berlin. A pang of embarrassment for asking so much of Fergus drove her to reach for his arm. “Thank you.”
The Scot offered a gruff “At your service,” and trudged along with his burden. “What do you intend to do with him?”
“Return him to Mayfair where he belongs. To Thorne Place on Savile Row.” She would see him safely under the care of his family, and her search would have to resume the next night. “Am I to assume you didn’t find Lavinia?”
“No, I dinna, but do no’ worry yourself. We’ll find her.”
His voice lacked conviction, and she tried to keep despair from creeping up. She and Fergus hadn’t been searching long. Only two weeks. But it seemed they were no closer to finding any of her sisters than she had been hidden away at Aldmist Fell, observing the proper mourning time.
When they reached the carriage, her driver grunted a greeting to Fergus. The clansmen had a strange way of communicating, but she had grown accustomed to their habits after years of living at her husband’s estate. She held the carriage door open.