Man Of The Mist
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One overlooked the pleasant park fronting Grosvenor Square. The other gave a not-so-charming view of the gables and slate tile roofing of Lord Mansfield’s house next door. There was nothing remarkable to be seen on the roof.
Elizabeth opened the drapes and cautiously parted the sheers on the bay window facing the street. London’s ever-present deep winter fog enveloped the park and obscured the stately avenue. She could pick out very few landmarks in the thick, heavy mist. “All I can see is a carriage light on a hackney turning at the corner.”
Another shower of minuscule pebbles pattered against the glass. Krissy jumped and came within inches of putting the poker through the glass panes. “Blood and fury! Will the demmed bounders scale the walls next?”
“Whisht, Krissy!” Elizabeth warned immediately. “Don’t wake Robbie.”
“Yes, mum,” Krissy said contritely.
Elizabeth did what any sensible young woman safely ensconced on the third floor of her father’s abode should do; she disarmed her fractious abigail, urging her to more dignified silence, and raised the window sash. Then both she and Krissy leaned their cap-covered heads out the window to appraise the scene on the street below. After all, Elizabeth thought, twenty-and-a-half isn’t so abysmally mature that I can’t show a minimum of curiosity.
“Wait, mum.” Krissy laid a trembling hand on Elizabeth’s sleeve. “Do ya ken who they are?”
At first glance, Elizabeth couldn’t rightly say that she did. Thick and heavy fog curled against the walls of the house and lifted up to dampen her chin and cheeks. The mists swirled, stirred by a soft gust of wind, to reveal three men huddled on the doorstep, under the novel haze of a pair of gas-fueled coach lights. The thick fog softened all details of their identity.
“Och, I count three of ’em,” Krissy’s brogue overlaid the mist. “What kin they want at this hour?”
“Good question,” Elizabeth replied suspiciously. Anyone with a shred of decency would have properly rung the bell and summoned Keyes, regardless of the urgency or the hour. That was the way things were done in the duke of Atholl’s house. “Suppose I best find out.”
Leaning farther over the sill, Elizabeth called out in a chilly voice, to let the intruders know she considered it outrageous form to throw stones at her windows. “Who are you and what do you want?”
The largest of the trio looked up, cupped his hands to his mouth and tilted his face toward the light gleaming on the near side of the entrance door. His voice echoed peculiarly, dampened and magnified by the fog.
“Ha! I’ll be bound! So Tullie was right. You are to town. Get up, lass! Come down here and unlock the door. Be quick about it, Izzy!”
“Izzy!” Elizabeth repeated his last word in a harsh whisper, instantly drawing back inside the window. Her heart skipped a beat, then jumped to an escalated cadence. Only one ne’er-do-well in the entire British Isles had ever dared to call her by that dreadful remnant from the nursery in public. Evan MacGregor!
“Eh?” Krissy cupped her hand to her ear, leaning her white face closer to Elizabeth’s. “What did he say? Who is it?”
Elizabeth ignored the question as she swallowed and sought her courage. She laid trembling hands on the damp windowsill to steady herself, leaning out once more. This time, when she spoke, her voice rang with the cool disdain of the bred-in-the-bone aristocrat. “Tell me one good reason why I should unlock the door of my house for the likes of you, Evan MacGregor!”
“What?” Krissy gasped, and laid her hand over her heart.
“Don’t argue with me, Elizabeth Murray! Get down here!” Evan stepped onto the highest step, deliberately placing himself in the circle of lamplight. She caught a glimpse of her brother’s red hair as Evan raised his arm in a furious gesture. “Unless you prefer that I heave Tullibardine’s bloody body in the bin out back. Make up your mind quick! The marquess has been shot, and he’s bleeding like a stuck pig. As bad as he’s wounded, he won’t last long, left out in this weather.”
“Shot?” Elizabeth cried. She backed out of the window so quickly she banged her head on the sash. So did Krissy.
“Shot?” Krissy parroted. “I dinna see Tullibardine.”
Elizabeth had. Her brother, John Murray, the marquess of Tullibardine, had become recognizable the moment Evan MacGregor moved away from him. Tullie slumped heavily against the support of the third man.
“What in the name of creation is going on in here? Are you trying to wake every soul in the house?” Amalia Murray demanded as she imperiously swept inside her younger sister’s chamber. “Elizabeth, who have you been shouting at on the street? Do you realize what time it is?”
“Hang the time!” Elizabeth exclaimed as she bolted past her sister. “Tullie’s been shot! Krissy, make certain Robbie’s sleep has not been disturbed, then come downstairs at once to help me.”
“What?” Amalia gasped. She stood stock-still, stunned, as Elizabeth ran past her to the staircase.
“What do you mean, Tullie’s been shot?” Amalia snatched up her hems, following. “Oh, no! Dear God, no! Elizabeth, come back and tell me it isn’t true!”
Elizabeth wasted no time getting down to the entrance foyer. But at the doorway her hands turned inept and clumsy, fumbling with the locks. Amalia caught up to her as Elizabeth swung the door wide open to the three men huddled on the step in the bone-chilling mist.
“What has happened?” Amalia exclaimed.
Elizabeth stood frozen on the doorsill, locked in a horror that went deeper than any life-threatening alarm raised for her brother. Some other portion of her mind recognized the grey breeks and scarlet jacket of a Highland volunteer cloaking Evan’s tall body. Her eyes came in full contact with his, and all sense of time and reality ended.
The panic surging into her veins wasn’t for the condition of her oldest brother. An unvoiced scream strangled underneath the tight compression of the fingers sealing her lips.
Evan! God help her, Evan sported the well-cut jacket of an officer of Graham’s Grey Breeks. He towered over Tullie, her brother. The Highlander’s jaw was set, his mouth a grim, dark and austere line that caught the night’s deepest shadows. His eyes locked with Elizabeth’s. She ceased breathing and thinking, and stood blocking the door.
“God save us!” Amalia whispered a fearful prayer behind Elizabeth. “John, what have you done?”
Elizabeth’s nostrils flared as the mist rolled past Evan and washed her burning cheeks. With it came the tang of burnt whiskey mingled with odors off the streets, horses, sweat, blood and dank wool.