Anne Stuart (10 page)

“
No!” Jess cried in horror. In a moment she’d modulated her voice. “You cannot possibly do such a thing. Not in Covent Garden, where’d you be mistaken for a high-class doxy if you aren’t carried off by procurers. If anyone should see you, or realize you sold your paintings, your chances of a proper marriage would be flown away.”

“
By proper you mean wealthy,” Fleur said carefully.

“
Isn’t that what you want as well? A kind, caring man who’ll take care of you? A man who won’t waste his money, leaving his wife and daughters penniless? Wouldn’t it be utterly splendid never to have to worry about where our next meal is coming from? Whether we’ll be tossed out of even this awful hovel and left to beg on the streets?” Her voice was tight with strain. “Surely nothing would be too great a sacrifice to be spared that.”

“
Has it really been that bad, Jess?” Fleur asked quietly. She had never worried where the food had come from. Jess had always provided, and told her not to concern herself.

She watched with amazement as Jessamine gave herself a little shake, seeming to toss off the anxiety that had settled around her. She smiled at her younger sister. “I’m being melodramatic, silly goose,” she said in a lighter voice. “I won’t pretend things haven’t been difficult since Father died, but we’ve made it this far, and things are definitely looking better. I’ve just got a case of the megrims.”

“
You’ve had it for days,” Fleur said. “Why?”

Jessamine lowered her eyes, but Fleur didn’t miss the sudden staining of color on her smooth cheeks. “It’s nothing. An importunate gentleman, and I failed to deal him the setdown he richly deserves. It doesn’t matter in the least—I’m unlikely to see him again, thank goodness. But I admit it’s... disturbed me slightly.”

“
A gentleman? You’ve always insisted you didn’t have any interest in men whatsoever,” Fleur said. “Who is he?”

“
Just some worthless aristocrat. An acquaintance or relative of Lady Plumworthy’s. It’s no great matter, darling. He was a bit overeager in demonstrating his appreciation of my card-reading abilities.”

“
I doubt your card-reading abilities had anything to do with it,” she said wisely. “Did he kiss you?”

“
It’s none of your concern. It’s past, and it doesn’t matter....”

“
More than once? What was it like? Was it unbearably awful? Was he horrid and ugly and old?”

Jessamine hesitated, and a faint, reluctant smile played around the corners of her full mouth. “No,” she said.

“
No, he didn’t kiss you more than once? Or no, he wasn’t horrid and ugly and old? What was it like?”

“
Quite... pleasant.”

“
Pleasant?” Fleur shrieked. “How very disappointing! I expected it would be life-shattering at the very least. Your first kiss and it was merely
pleasant?”

“
What makes you think it was my first kiss?”

“
Wasn’t it?”

“
I’ve been kissed before.”

“
I don’t believe you. You’ve never had the least use for men. Besides, if you’re so experienced, then why do you have the megrims?”

“
I’d never been kissed... in quite that manner,” she confessed. “It was rather unnerving.”

“
Oh, how delicious. I wish someone would kiss me like that. I should so adore to be unnerved,” Fleur said with a mischievous smile. And for some reason the vision of the large, untidy policeman danced into her memory and her humor faded.

“
You’re too young,” Jess said sternly. “Wait for your husband to unnerve you. It’s far safer.”

“
Do you want him to kiss you again?”

“
Whether I do or not hardly matters, since I won’t be seeing him again. I’m certain I can manage to avoid him, and if I can’t, I shall simply have to give up my society readings.”

“
Which reminds me. What is the difference between my selling my paintings and your accepting money for reading the cards? Surely it puts you beyond the pale as well?”

“
Ah, but I have no intention of marrying well, or at all. I don’t possess the natural attributes you do, dearest.”

“
You’re ridiculous, Jess!”

Jessamine shrugged her narrow shoulders. “One takes the path given one, Fleur. Just rest assured that you won’t have to marry anyone you don’t want to. I have trust in your good sense. I know you’ll manage to fall in love with a very wealthy man,” she said cheerfully.

“
Oh, I’m most sensible, sister dear,” Fleur replied evenly. “I still want to know where you go when you leave here for the day.”

“
I don’t walk the streets looking for customers, love,” she said lightly. “I do card readings.”

“
But that’s fairly recent, isn’t it? Lady Plumworthy heard of your existence only a few weeks ago.”

Jess hesitated. “I... I’ve been doing readings for others as well,” she said finally.

Fleur simply waited.

“
For the Bow Street runners,” Jess admitted.

“
The Bow Street runners?” she echoed in a hollow voice, but Jess was too guilty to notice her sister’s reaction.

“
I know it’s
not done,
Fleur,” she said hurriedly. “And that’s why I haven’t told you or Mama. But it’s helped support us, and it’s been a force for good in society. At least, sometimes,” she added with a trace of bitterness.

“
I’m certain the police are quite estimable,” Fleur said faintly.

“
Not the ones I’ve met.” Her voice was dark. “You keep away from the runners, Fleur. They’re a bad lot, not much better than the criminals they arrest.”

“
I keep away from everyone, Jess.”

Jessamine stared at her, suddenly troubled. “You haven’t been bothered, have you? No one has accosted you, asked you questions, taken liberties?”

“
You’re the one who was kissed, Jessie. Not me. Though I expect I’m bored enough that I would have enjoyed it more than you did,” she added with a forced smile.

“
You’d be wrong,” Jessamine said firmly. “Now, off to bed, my pet, or Mama will hear us talking.”

“
Yes, sister dear. I promise to dream chaste dreams. I wonder if the same could be said of you. What was your wicked seducer’s name, by the way?”

“
He didn’t seduce me,” Jess said sternly. “And I don’t know his name.”

“
And you taught me never to lie!” Fleur said with a hollow laugh. “Promise me one thing. It wasn’t your Bow Street runner, was it?”

Jessamine shuddered. “It wasn’t, Fleur. And it never will be.”

Alistair rolled over onto his back, staring up into the inky
blue velvet of the London night. He’d grown used to the smells that surrounded him. In truth, the country was full of less than flowery scents as well, and yet, if he’d had his choice, he’d be far away from this damnable city that ate its children whole.

He’d heard almost every word with gratifying clarity. He counted excellent hearing among his many gifts, and the two Maitland sisters had made little effort to keep their voices down. After all, no one could hear them unless a cat happened to be prowling on the rooftops and stopped just above an open window.

Unnerving.
Bless the girl. He’d managed to shake her equilibrium as soundly as she’d shaken his. Of course, in her case it wasn’t much of a challenge. An untouched virgin would be easy prey for an experienced scoundrel. He frowned, remembering her words. What other men had she kissed? Whoever they were, they were far too polite and respectful. They probably had nothing but the most honorable of intentions toward her. Whereas his were nothing short of lascivious.

She couldn’t get him out of her mind.
He would have to do his best to remind her, should she have more success at dismissing his memory. She and her impoverished little family were obviously quite desperately in need of money, and he had little doubt the right offer from a respectable source could lure her into society once more. An evening performance, perhaps. She could read the cards for a few select couples, and he would stay well out of sight so as not to alarm her. And then he would be the perfect gentleman and escort her back to this dreary little hovel.

The thought of that long carriage ride cheered him immensely, and he started back across the rooftops, silent as a cat, moving between the closely packed buildings with his usual dexterity. Down below, the streets were deceptively quiet—too much so. At that time of night even areas like Spitalfields
should see some signs of life. A whore or two, perhaps a costermonger, or at least a stray four-footed cat.

On impulse he scrambled down a roof, then dropped to the ground on silent feet. It was a back alleyway, not two streets over from the Maitlands’ abode, and it was a simple enough matter to blend with the shadows in his dark clothes. He hadn’t bothered to blacken his face, but the night was a cape to cover him as he moved through the streets like his feline counterpart.

The lights were out in the Maitlands’ house. He stood there, looking up, wondering if the haphazard windows would provide enough of a foothold for him to climb up to Jessamine’s bedroom, when he sensed the presence of someone nearby.

“
Nice night for a walk, isn’t it?” said a man’s voice, thick, plummy, with an unmistakable London accent.

And Alistair turned around slowly to meet Josiah Clegg’s soulless eyes.

Seven

Josiah Clegg didn’t appear to be that formidable a foe when observed up close. He was an ordinary-looking man, a bit vain, with a wide, thick-lipped mouth and a surprisingly pleasant smile. A warm smile, the kind to inspire confidence.

Alistair wasn’t inspired. Nor was he particularly troubled by the appearance of a man who could be his nemesis. Apart from the interesting revelations he’d overheard beneath the Maitlands’ roof, the night had been far too uneventful.

“
Qu’est-ce que c’est?”
he demanded in his passable French.

“
Odd,” said Clegg. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d be one of these damned Frenchy emigres. You don’t have the face for it.”

“
Pourguoi?”
Alistair said, looking vague.

“
You don’t look British, either,” Clegg continued in a musing voice. “I’d say you were a Scot by the look of you.”

“
Je ne comprends pas,”
Alistair murmured, about to run out of French phrases.

“
Most people who are out at this hour are up to no good,” Clegg went on, gazing at him thoughtfully.
Including you,
Alistair thought. “I wouldn’t be doing my duty if I didn’t make certain you were on the up-and-up. Hold out your hands.”

“
Pardon?”

“
Your hands, man!” Clegg said impatiently, thrusting his own hands out in demonstration. They were thick, hamlike hands, the nails lined with filth.

Alistair immediately offered his hands. They were equally grimy from his sojourn over the rooftops, grimy enough to disguise his lack of calluses in the darkness of the night.

“
You’re not a weaver,” Clegg said, more to himself. “You haven’t got the hands for it. What do you do, live off your womenfolk?” The notion seemed to amuse him.

“
Je suis un Voleur,”
Alistair murmured sweetly.
“Je suis le Chat.”

“
Voleur,
eh? What the hell is that?” Clegg demanded. “Let me give you a warning, my friend. This is my territory. Clegg’s, you understand? If you haven’t heard of me by now, you should have. I’m a dangerous man. You have any interesting little sidelines, then you pay me to let you be. If you don’t, you get hauled in before the Justice, and he doesn’t like Frenchies any more than he likes criminals. I’m a little more broad-minded, if you get my drift. I’m willing to look the other way this time.” His thick London accent was deceptively affable. “That is, if you’ll tell me what you were doing sniffing around that house back there. I have a personal interest in the young lady there. You think you’re going to crawl between her legs and you’ll find you don’t have anything to put there. You’ve a pretty face and she probably likes it well enough, but I’ve got her staked out for me. You understand?”

Alistair looked at him blankly, seething.

“
Half-wit,” Clegg said to himself. “Just keep away from them. You understand that much, don’t you? I need to keep the older sister on my side for the time being, but when I’m through with her, I’m going after the young one. And I won’t take kindly to anyone who’s been there ahead of me.”

“
Batard,”
Alistair murmured politely, backing away from him.

“
Yeah,
batard
to you too,” Clegg muttered, dismissing him. “Just remember she’s mine, Frenchy.”

Alistair had never killed a man. He knew how to use pistols and a sword, he’d even fought the requisite number of polite duels. Usually he preferred to use his wits and his cunning, not brute force. But looking at Clegg, he found himself filled with a sudden longing to smash the man’s teeth down his throat.

“
Get out of here,” Clegg said irritably. “Your idiot face is beginning to annoy me.”

“
Baisez mon cul,”
he said, bowing low. And before Clegg could decide to come closer, he disappeared into the shadows of the dark London night.