The 12th Kiss

  * * *

  Wings ePress, Inc

  www.wings-press.com

  Copyright ©2007 by Laura N. Hogg

  First published in 2007, 2007

  * * *

  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

  * * *

  The 12th Kiss

  "That is not a fair statement. Leafy is a beautiful woman. She must be careful."

  "I agree."

  "You should understand, Cheltham."

  "I do. Where do you come from exactly?"

  "New York, like my family."

  "How old are you?"

  "Nineteen.” Raphael dropped his gaze.

  "Interesting. The same age as Miss Moore. You resemble her mildly. Are you her cousin?” He lowered his head, trying to get a closer look at his friend. Raphael scooted to the far corner of the seat.

  The Viscount couldn't get a good look in the dark anyway.

  "Let's talk about something else. Where are we going?"

  "To fight crime, lad."

  Raphael's face lit up, from what he could tell. “Good. I am very well pleased to hear that."

  "To the back slums. We will not use a weapon unless the situation turns dire."

  Raphael grinned. “Something to prove, Cheltham?"

  "Only to ourselves, my friend. So nothing but a bunch of fives tonight unless our lives depend on the use of more!” he stated, smiling and throwing up his fist. “I have a change of clothes here."

  When they arrived on the boisterous streets filled with the effluvium of city life, the smoke, urine, and various other indefinable scents, they stepped out and began to walk. It started to sprinkle rain.

  Raphael stuck his tongue way out of his mouth and closed his eyes. He stretched out his hands, waving his fingers.

  "Raphael?"

  "The raindrops are little bits of life itself, and I want to feel them on an intimate level.” He opened his eyes and spun around exuberantly.

  Lord Cheltham faced his friend, smiling widely. “What are you doing, lad?"

  "Ah, Cheltham, I am enjoying the dog's soup!"

  "The what?” He laughed.

  "The rain water, you deuced lord. You need to walk out a little farther from your fancy townhouse once in a while."

  "That's why I accompany you, my good boy! It seems I have much to learn. Dog's soup, that's bloody funny!"

  Wings

  The 12th Kiss

  by

  Laura N. Hogg

  A Wings ePress, Inc.

  Regency Historical Novel

  Wings ePress, Inc.

  Edited by: Rosalie Franklin

  Copy Edited by: Leslie Hodges

  Senior Editor: Leslie Hodges

  Executive Editor: Lorraine Stephens

  Cover Artist: Richard Stroud

  All rights reserved

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Wings ePress Books

  www.wings-press.com

  Copyright © 2007 by Laura N. Hogg

  ISBN 978-1-59705-191-0

  Published In the United States Of America

  December 2007

  Wings ePress Inc.

  403 Wallace Court

  Richmond, KY 40475

  Dedication

  The angel Raphael, my daughter Caitlin, my husband Michael, my parents, sisters, and friends in the RWC critique group who helped me to polish up the novel.

  One

  London 1820

  "I'll kill you. You have undertaken a despicable action that you must pay for,” the highwayman vowed in frosty tones. He glared at The Viscount Cheltham through tapering icy-black eyes above an ebony silk wrap that masked the remainder of his face. “Troublesome Viscount..."

  Sitting sideways in his traveling chariot with the door open, Lord Cheltham faced the highwayman from three feet away. His lordship was tired and had hoped he and his sister could finish this last leg of their journey as quickly as possible. He rubbed his eyes then viewed the unlawful man from a haughty, exasperated point of view.

  Their captor did not resemble the typical sort of road criminal clad in tattered clothes as if he belonged to the night. Instead he sat tall on his gray horse dressed well in buckskin breeches over an expensive pair of boots. A well-cut coat of very fine cloth topped off his attire.

  Lord Cheltham's eyes narrowed, searching his captor's eyes for a clue to his motivations and to what he referred. At first he wondered if he had met him before, but on scrutinizing the man, he counted him a stranger.

  "This is most ungentlemanly. Do me the honor of a duel, and at the very least, tell me who you are."

  "Prepare to die,” the highwayman spouted with dismissal.

  "Allow me my last goodbye in private,” the Viscount's sister intruded.

  Lord Cheltham shot her a look over his shoulder. Dark curls fell next to her blushing cheeks, and she clutched the ends of her cream and pink-colored cashmere shawl with trembling hands. Her eyes glistened with tears threatening to spill from her large eyes.

  "No.” The highwayman laughed.

  Recoiling from the sound of bitter, mocking tones in response to his sister's inquiry, the Viscount flashed his gaze back to the cold gray metal of the double barrel flintlock directed at his chest. The lead ball would tear from it, a tiny puff of sulfur-smelling smoke would burst forth, a moment of agony would ensue, and then he'd be dead. But what would become of Joan? Would the scoundrel kill her next? He stole another quick peek at his young sister who cringed on the seat of the carriage. She didn't deserve his fate. His thoughts raced treacherously.

  He could lunge at the man and wrench the gun from his rapacious grasp, render him unconsciousness, and take him straight to the authorities.

  The reprobate measured them, sitting there in his arrogance. “He'll soon be amongst the angels. Then you can join him; though I might be persuaded to spare you, Miss.” A lustful gloating colored his eyes.

  Pride and disgust burned in the Viscount's chest as he stared down the ridiculously overdressed man of the streets. For surely none of the peerage would conduct himself this way.

  Clothed as a man of his superior class, finely, from his aristocratic glossy Hessian boots to his carefully arranged cravat, the Viscount sat up straighter, reached back, and pressed his sister's arm in comfort. His eyes lifted from the dark metal in their faces to the man who'd uttered the dreaded words, “Stand and deliver,” mere moments before. He had struck their driver on the back of his head with the butt of his weapon, leaving him senseless. Joan had flung the thief her reticule, and Lord Cheltham had given him a pouch containing the rest of their traveling money. The highwayman put it in a bag strapped onto his horse. Too bad he didn't leave but remained, intending to commit murder.

  "I promise you, sir, you will pay for choosing our coach to apprehend,” his lordship said. Dusk began to fall, casting shadows of varying degrees of gray over their travel-weary bodies.

  "Brother...” She leaned into him, gripping his arm.

  "Joan, be quie
t."

  The aristocratically dressed scoundrel lifted his hand a couple of inches in preparation. Lord Cheltham gave a cursory look at the unmoving coachman, slumped forward over his horse, then to the servant on the outside bench in the back, who remained motionless, soundless, and pale-faced. His lordship returned his gaze to the evildoer and raised his arms.

  "I concede."

  Their captor lowered his shoulders as if he could now count on no resistance. A frosty mist began to slither up all around them, camouflaging the view of their would-be killer. Joan swore under her breath, and Lord Cheltham lifted a brow. The muted landscape offered no comfort in these lusterless seconds.

  Lord Cheltham stole a chance and lurched forward. Catching the villain off guard, the man's horse reared and threw him. Both men landed with a thud, and they tussled, exchanging blow for blow, clashing and colliding until the land pirate scrambled and stretched his hand, and clutched his weapon once again.

  Whipping around with his weapon in his hand, he sneered, his hair loose and his clothes soiled and torn in various places. The Viscount froze on the spot.

  Before he knew what was happening, the miscreant scrambled to his feet and ran, his horse having taken off in the other direction. Rumbling, pounding horse hooves stamped the ground, throwing up clouds of dust in their wake as a long-haired young man charged down the road shouting, “There you are!” and chased him into an expanse of woodland several yards off. Darkness cascaded onto the land and swallowed up the white flash of the rescuer's horse.

  Baffled, the Viscount stood, blinked, and rubbed his eyes. Their liberator made his way back only moments later, and above the main road to London streaks of moonlight and stars glittered, speckling the sky. The Viscount, overtaken with intrigue, stared at the boy cantering up on his horse. The strange lad dressed as a street-urchin in clothes unfit for the middle class. The Viscount stood scratching his head in bewilderment.

  The scruffy fellow approached him and with great charm, then jumped to the ground. Lord Cheltham lengthened his posture as he took in the sight of this greasy-haired young chap in breeches that had seen Old King George's day. He wore a rough linen shirt and worn workman's boots, and had an eye-patch over one eye and a loose strain of hair hanging over the other. He brushed it aside, but it fell back out of place. A dirt smudge slashed his left cheek.

  "Where did you procure the horse?” Lord Cheltham asked.

  His rescuer laughed. It sounded practiced. “You are most welcome."

  "For what?"

  The younger of the two, the hero of the hour, lifted his brow and rested his hands on his narrow hips. “For saving you, that's what.” He scowled in a playful way.

  "I had control."

  "Obviously, my lord, you had the situation well in hand.” The saucy boy smirked.

  Lord Cheltham couldn't stop his lips from curling into a most entertained grin. Joan poked her head out of the carriage.

  "What humor do you find in this?"

  The scruffy one bowed in an almost mocking way. “My lady."

  Joan presented him with supercilious look. “Who are you?"

  "Oh, I'm only a concerned citizen from New York."

  "You're a colonist!"

  The boy laughed again, this time in an authentic and amused way. It was a freer expression than before, and his shoulders shook with the effort.

  "Perhaps four and forty years past I should have been called so!"

  "Why are you come to London?"

  "I'm here on business."

  "What sort of business?"

  "The business of saving citizens such as you, my lady. You are curious. I'm usually not approached with so many questions."

  Joan's brow lifted. “I do not make a habit of asking strange boys such things, but I must know because I have never seen anyone display such bottom for the sake of strangers. It's odd. Why are you here? Be honest if you would be so kind."

  Lord Cheltham raised his brows, amazed at his sister's boldness. She was of a noble family!

  The boy looked at him then toward the front of the carriage. “Your driver—"

  Lord Cheltham followed his rescuer's gaze. “He stirs,” he said with more than a tiny bit of relief.

  Their eyes met again.

  "I come for the sake of—"

  "What?"

  "I'm connected to the Moore family,” replied the lad, smiling.

  Lord Cheltham grinned, impressed. “You mean the Moores of New York's high society, of real estate fortune?"

  "Yes."

  "I know of them.” He cleared his throat. “They have a beautiful daughter.” He paced a step then considered the courageous boy.

  "Do you speak of Miss Relief Moore or Miss Honora?” The lad squinted and scratched his cheek.

  "Miss Relief Moore,” the Viscount answered.

  A frown crossed the features of the young one, perhaps because he no longer cared to discuss the subject. “Now that you are safe, my lord..."

  The Viscount winced with the sting of stepped-on pride. Standing two feet from the carriage's side, he gazed at the boy suspiciously. “How is it that a guttersnipe such as you could know the Moore family?"

  "You arrogant fool!” he responded, hands fisted and chin lifted.

  The boy has a temper, the Viscount thought.

  "I know them in a way you never will, for you should have not a doubt on that score!” The American spat out the words then scoffed. He paced a step. His horse fidgeted and snickered.

  "I would have overcome the man without you.” Mockery smoldered in Lord Cheltham's heart. He crossed his hands together and stretched his fingers before resting them at his sides again.

  "I own that is hardly likely.” The boy reached up to pet his horse's mane with deliberate strokes. He winced as peals of laughter pierced the air to tease him, and he shook his greasy head.

  "You ungrateful—"

  Lord Cheltham stopped laughing and squinted. He wanted to pull out a handkerchief and vigorously scrub the lad's dirty face, so he could see him better. He suspected that he might be a handsome boy.

  "Tell me, boy, how did you acquire the horse? Did you borrow it from your master? Are you a chimney sweep or a stable boy? What do you do?"

  "First of all, Your Grace—"

  "Ah, now it's ‘Your Grace.’ I am no duke. I am a Viscount."

  "Very well, your great lordship, I have no master. I never will. I am hardy and independent, an American, you will recall, and determined. I would kindly ask that you refrain from mocking me further. It angers me a trifle. Now, pray excuse me, someone is expecting me.” The boy turned to leave.

  "Wait.” Lord Cheltham chuckled and lifted his hands in a friendly gesture. “I wouldn't want to set to fire a little quick-tempered lad like you. Stay a moment longer. You are more amusing than any acquaintance I have."

  "Go to the devil.” The young American scowled.

  "It's just that you're not a very big man.” It was as if a sharp object had gouged the Viscount's pride, and he wanted to remedy that before he would see the American boy leave his presence.

  "What does size have to do with anything? Are you interested in a fight? I saved your life!” He spit to his side in the dirt and brought an angry face to the Viscount.

  Lord Cheltham chuckled. The events of this night and now the allayment from surviving put him in a most free-spirited mood, uninhibited. In an instant the boy leaped and had him on the ground with his foot on his chest. Lord Cheltham blinked in surprise. He was a sportsman and knew how to fight.

  "How did you do that?"

  Joan stared in wonder. She grasped the door of the carriage.

  The boy grinned. “I told you I'm no weakling."

  "I regret my previous comments. I beg you, sir, allow me my dignity."

  "Why, pray tell, should I?” He elevated his chin in a haughty way and clenched his jaw.

  "You should because I wish to offer an apology,” the Viscount said.

  The boy released him, and he s
tood up and dusted himself off before offering his hand. “I ought to be obliged to you. What is your name, my coloni—my American friend?"

  The boy opened his mouth but hesitated.

  "You do have a name, do you not?"

  "Yes. It's Raphael. Raphael Taylor.” The young one squeezed his hand.

  "It's a pleasure, sir.” Lord Cheltham frowned. An unexplainable tingle ran down his back.

  "And you?"

  He removed his hand from Raphael's, disturbed at the feelings awakened in him. A spark of attraction shocked him and was most unwelcome. He wanted to grab the lad's hand again. He blinked in self-disgust.

  "I'm Lord Cheltham, and this is my sister Miss Joan Wright."

  Joan tossed off a quick nod, not saying anything.

  "Also a pleasure.” Raphael smirked as if he'd expected the rude behavior.

  The Viscount grinned shaking off his strange sensations. What odd power did this stranger possess? He swallowed, wanting to stay in Raphael's presence as long as possible.

  Raphael eyed him. “Perhaps I will see you at the opera."

  "Perhaps.” He shrugged, smiling.

  "Relief Moore enjoys it to a large degree,” Raphael said.

  "What an odd name, or so I have always thought,” he muttered.

  "It's a fine American name."

  "She is so beautiful that I don't care if she's a bloody American,” Lord Cheltham spilled out.

  Raphael placed his small fists on his hips once again. “Do not refer to her that way, my lord,” he said in angry tones.

  "Why? Just how well are you acquainted with Miss Moore?"

  "I call her Leafy."

  Both the Viscount and his sister fell into a bout of laughter once again. “Leafy? Good Lord! That passes all bounds to be sure!” he managed between chuckles.

  "You two have a most unfortunate habit of laughing far too often! Give your tongues a holiday. Her name is Relief. Her friends and family call her Leafy. It makes sense, damn you!” Raphael stamped his foot.

  "Leafy!” The Viscount shook his head.

  Raphael scoffed and set his hands upon his horse to mount, but paused. “I shall remove myself now from your impertinent presence!"