A Scandalous Lady (2 page)

“You'll do no such thing.” The last thing she needed was a snot-nosed fourteen-year-old tugging at her coattails. Besides, Lord only knew how long she'd be out tonight—or if she'd even be coming back. There was no sense in both of them catching their deaths. She reached for a dry, moth-eaten seaman's cap and pulled it over her head. “Just stay here—I'll be back as soon as I can.”

 

“You the baron?”

Seated at a back table in a Thames-side tavern, Troyce de Meir glanced up lazily at the man who'd come to stand before him. George Feagin fit the description he'd been given down to the letter. Barely five and half feet tall, pudgy from his fingertips to his forehead, with thick sideburns down his jowls and a blackened wig that sat slightly askew on his reputedly balding pate.

He snapped the lid shut on the timepiece cradled in his hand and slipped it into the pocket of his waistcoat. “You're late.”

“That I am,” the tradesman boasted with a flamboyant grin. “A pretty little moll down at The Headless Woman just wouldn't let me out of her arms.” He flipped his coattails out behind him and settled his ponderous weight into the opposite chair.

Troyce dismissed the boast with a minimal smile that concealed his irritation. Obviously Feagin didn't regard their meeting worthy of punctuality—or apology. Not a good sign. Then again, what had he expected? Two weeks he'd spent in London, making the acquaintance of a variety of prospects, and his situation was beginning to appear as grim as it had the day he'd returned to England a few months earlier.

“Have you brought the goods?” Feagin inquired in a conspiratorial whisper.

Grimacing, Troyce slid a rolled parchment across the surface of a table scarred by a century of sweaty iron tankards, spilled ale, and cigar burns. Feagin tore the scroll from its sleeve, carelessly unrolled it, and slapped a recently abandoned tankard from the next table upon its curling edges to weigh it down. Beads of brew slid down the metal stein and soaked the aged paper.

Bloody hell.

While Feagin studied the documents, Troyce leaned back in his chair, his gaze sweeping Jorge's Tavern. The atmosphere reminded him faintly of his time on the shores of Maine, where he'd spent the last eight years. Odors of fish, sweat, beer, cigars, must, and mildew had ingrained themselves over the years into the pocked-wood walls. Dockworkers, seamen, and characters of undistinguishable yet shady pursuit filtered in and out of the riverside tavern. Not exactly the establishment Troyce preferred to conduct business, but neither would it benefit him to have every nob in London learning that the third Baron of Westborough was desperate.

The minutes ticked on with no reaction from his companion. Word about town had it that George Feagin had made a substantial fortune in risky ventures. That fortune was the only reason Troyce had deigned to meet with the tradesman. That, and the dismal fact that he'd been the only one to exhibit even the slightest interest in Troyce's enterprise.

He signaled for a second brandy from a blowsy barmaid with unnaturally red hair and a come-hither smile born of years of practice. Her ample hips swung to and fro in blatant invitation as she brought a bottle to his table, and a generous slice of cleavage commanded his full notice when she leaned over to fill his cup. There was nothing like a lush and willing woman to distract a man from his troubles, he thought, tempted to take advantage of her unmistakable offer and lose himself in her abundant charms. Unfortunately, regretfully, the last thing he needed at this moment was a distraction.

“She looks genuine.”

Troyce dragged his attention back to Feagin, bent over the sketchings. “She's genuine, all right,” he said, promptly forgetting the maid. “One of Queen Isabella's
Armada
de
la
Guardia
and a war galleon of the Treasure Fleet of 1622. She was fished out of the Mediterranean over fifteen years ago.”

“What kind of repairs are you looking at?”

He tossed back a swallow of the bitter swill that passed for brandy. “Complete renovation of the deck, replacement mainmast and topmasts, and canvases.”

“She suffered heavy damages then.”

Troyce shrugged as if the work was no more substantial than replacing the thatches on a cottage roof. Only the blisters on his hands and the lint in his pockets conveyed the truth. “A sufficient amount as a result of the storms and cannon fire, but not irreparable.”

“How long before you can have her seaworthy?”

“With a dependable crew of laborers, three or four months.”

“That'll give me time to secure a buyer.”

“Buyers I have in abundance. What I need is capital to make the repairs.”

“Yes, five hundred pounds' worth, I'm told.” Feagin frowned.

“It'll draw ten times that much at auction,” Troyce said. Of that, he was certain. The galleon had already garnered the interest of King Alfonso XIII of Spain. Troyce saw no reason to inform Feagin that massive repairs had already been made to the hull, or that those renovations had sorely depleted the de Meir coffers. Once the ship was restored, it would go to the highest bidder, and his present problems would be solved.

“We'll split the profits seventy–thirty,” Feagin finally said by way of agreement.

“Forty–sixty,” Troyce corrected, wincing as Feagin crumpled his father's sketchings into a roll.

“I'm financing the work.”

“I'm doing the work, and it's my ship.”

Feagin sat back and pondered the bid. “Fifty-fifty or no deal.”

Troyce inwardly bucked at the terms, but much to his dismay, he didn't see that he had much choice. Yes, buyers he could recruit for the finished product; no one seemed inclined, however, to purchase damaged goods. And thanks to the horrid state of affairs left to him by his father, there was no longer any money available to invest in this venture, which reduced him to two options: marry a wealthy woman or raise the money himself. He'd be damned if he'd put his title on the auction block. Not that he carried any particular fondness for it, but it and his pride were all he had left to call his own.

With a single, decisive nod, Troyce agreed to Feagin's terms. A pouch of coins marking the initial investment, arrangements for the distribution of additional funds and a later view of the progress concluded their business. Then Troyce left the tavern while his new partner stayed to celebrate with the barmaid.

Outside, he lifted his face to the rain, sucked in a draft of clean moist air, and smiled. Even the gloomy weather couldn't dampen his suddenly chipper spirits. Feagin might not have been a top-of-the-line choice, but all in all, the meeting had proved more profitable than Troyce had anticipated. For the first time since his father's death, the burden he'd been carrying lifted. He gave the purse a light toss and his grin broadened at the familiar jangle. Despite the unconventional pact, the ship his father had loved with his last breath would be restored, the future of the barony would be secured, and he . . . well, he'd escaped a fate equal—nay worse—than death.

 

“Any luck yet?”

Heart leaping into her windpipe, Fanny whipped around and nearly fell back on her heels. “Damn yer eyes, Scatter, I told you to wait in the tunnels. What are ye doing out here?”

“Someone gots t' watch out for ye.”

As if the fourteen-year-old offered much protection, she silently scoffed.

Still—and she'd pluck herself bald before admitting it—she welcomed his presence. She'd been crouched in the alley for hours with no company save for the aches in her joints. It got bloody lonely sometimes.

While Scatter hunched down against the wall, Fanny's attention slid back to the tavern she'd been watching across the street. A pair of prostitutes loitered on the corner, calling out bawdy suggestions to a gent hanging out the window of a passing hack. Chimney smoke, sewage fumes, and damp mist collided into a myriad of vaporous odors that were both repugnant and embracing, and as much a part of her existence as the damp wool-spun coat, sackcloth shirt, and patchwork trousers plastered to her skin.

She swiped the moisture gathering on her freezing cheek, drew her soggy coat more tightly about her shoulders, and suppressed a shiver. Crikey, it was colder than a ditch digger's bum out here. The weather didn't help any. What irony that, to keep a roof over her head, she was stuck crouching in the rain.

Silence settled around them as thick and eerie as the London fog rolling in from the Thames, save for the clop of hooves on the slick cobblestoned street as the hack rolled passed the mouth of the alley. Habit had Fanny shrinking back into the shadows. Not that she had any reason to worry about being seen—no one with all their druthers about them would venture out on such a dismal night. No, it was being caught by the bobbies—or worse, the Bow Street Runners—that had her heart slamming against her ribs. They patrolled the streets religiously, their sole mission in life to harass those simply trying to make a living.

The news of Charlie's fate made the risks of her own situation all too real. Only swift feet, clever thinking, and a survivor's instinct had kept her from the clutches of the law for over a decade, but if it could happen to Charlie Topp, what's to say it wouldn't happen to her?

Beside her, Scatter blew on fingers visible above the gloves he wore, the digits cut out at the knuckles for freer movement. “Zounds, Fanny, where is everybody?”

She wondered the same thing. Even on the slowest of nights, pickings had never been this slim. And there was no returning to the tunnels without full pockets. Jack had made that perfectly clear.

All she needed was one loaded bloke.

As if in answer to a prayer, the door to the tavern blew open. Both Scatter and Fanny went instantly alert when a large, looming shadow moved out onto the walk and paused beneath the awning.
Crikey, he's a tall one
, Fanny thought. The top of his hat nearly brushed the wooden frame, the span of his shoulders blocked the doorsill. He lifted the cape of his dark greatcoat around his jaw, glanced down the street, then up.

A gasp tore from Fanny's throat, and she reared back as lamplight hit on a face nearly as familiar to her as her own.

“Do ye know 'im?”

She wagged her head. “Never seen 'im before.” Not in the flesh, anyway. But in her dreams . . . oh aye, she knew him. She knew the length of every layer of his coal black hair and the regal arc of his brows. She knew the sunburst design of his silvery eyes, the exact angle of his nose, the precise cut of his cheekbones. And she knew that his mouth, though severe in appearance, was soft and infinitely gentle upon her own.

“ 'E looks like trouble,” Scatter remarked. “A pence says 'e's a Robin.”

“He's no runner.” She could smell an investigator a mile off.

No, this man was . . . well, as goosey as it sounded, he was her prince of dreams.

Fanny gave herself a mental shake and flicked the silly notion away. Fantasies did not come to life, figments of the imagination did not take on substance, and princes did not appear out of the darkness of night, no matter how many times she might have wished for it to happen. The gent simply bore an uncanny and extraordinarily eerie resemblance to her dream prince, nothing more.

The explanation steadied her shaken composure somewhat and allowed her to settle down to the business of observation. The tailored nip and tuck of his knee-length coat, quality footwear, and the proud posture marked him as a man of means. When he dropped a familiar bulky object into his front pocket, she knew she'd struck pay dirt.

“ 'E's a left kick,” she told Scatter, noting the purse's destination. She twisted her hair into a roll and piled it atop her head, covering the mass with a weather-beaten knit cap. “Hook and snatch,” she said, choosing one of their most effective team methods. “Catch him at the corner before he picks up a lift.”

A hand pressed on her arm when she pushed herself to her feet. “Get off the crook, Fanny. He's alone. We don't work alone.”

Fanny narrowed her brows and jerked from Scatter's hold. “Clear off, ye little moll-buzzer. I've been fanning blokes like him most of me life.”

“Maybe, but I gots me a bad feeling about this one.”

She hated it when he started blathering his hocus-pocus rot. It always made chills pop up on the back of her neck. “That moldy bread's what's givin' ye a bad feeling. Now let's go 'fore he gets away.”

“Why him?” Scatter persisted. “Just wait'll someone else comes out. That mark's dangerous.”

Fanny couldn't agree more. But she was cold, she was soaked, and she was weary down to the marrow. It was him—or no one. “Are ye with me or not?”

A worried frown creased Scat's forehead, but he nodded anyway, then sprinted along the length of the alley toward a hedgerow to the right of the tavern. Fanny ducked low and watched his progress with one eye, while keeping the other on their mark, who remained beneath the awning in wait. Since there were no horses about, Fanny decided that he'd either sent a stableboy around for his carriage or he was waiting for a hired cab. Either way, they were running out of time.

Noting Scatter's apprehension, Fanny felt a moment's guilt for pushing the lad into a trick. Then she consoled herself with the fact that she'd given him a choice. Truth tell, she didn't need a partner to notch a job. She never had. But pairing up often made it faster and easier, not to mention cleaner.

After Scatter rounded the back of the tavern, he popped his head above a rock wall, giving Fanny her cue to begin closing in. Scatter, as the “snatch,” would snag the mark's attention while Fanny acted as the “hook” and relieved him of the thick purse she'd seen him stuff into his left pocket.

No sooner did Fanny cross the street and maneuver herself into position than a second man emerged from the tavern, calling, “Westborough, you forgot your sketchings.”