Edith Layton (10 page)

Frederick saw Alasdair’s face and set the tankard down. “Some of their informants also work for those of lesser rank,” he reported. “A ranker rank, if you’ll
forgive the jest. For example, that wispy fellow by the tap, the one between those two carters? You have to squint to see him, then focus hard to keep him in sight. He has a gift for disappearance,” Frederick added enviously. “He’s employed by an old friend of yours.”

“Yes, so I guessed. He’s good, but not quite invisible. I’ve seen him before.”

Frederick fell still and looked at his drink.

“I seldom pay merely for poetry,” Alasdair added evenly, though there was a note of warning under his words.

“Oh, well. The fellow is in the employ of a lout known as Lolly Lou. He’s a larcenous boor. A low creature, though he’s done well enough for himself. He has his podgy digits in many a disreputable enterprise in the lower parts of London. If a thing can make money for him, he’ll do it. He has no discretion at all,” Frederick added fastidiously.

“I know him,” Alasdair said, nodding. “He’d sell out his country as soon as any one of his wives.”

“So you heard about that, too?” Frederick asked in disappointment. “Well, I suppose you would, having met up with him in your adventures during the late wars, I suppose…”

He turned pale. Alasdair’s face had grown cold. His eyes seemed to glow with an infernal glare as he leaned forward so that his soft cold voice could be heard. “You will promptly forget that line of reasoning and anything to do with my work during the late wars.
If
you wish to remain in your fastidious line of work—in one fastidious piece, that is. All things are for sale with you, I accept that.
We
accept that, I should say, because there are others concerned, and believe me, they would be if they heard how free you are with our histories. Inane gossip about fashion or love affairs is one thing. A
man’s work for his country is another. The wars are past, our parts in it often are not, so it’s not a matter for discussion even now. Is that clear, and understood?”

“Certainly,” Frederick breathed, his hand to his throat. “By all means.”

Alasdair rose and towered over the table. “Good,” he said. “If you hear anything else, you know where to find me. As I know where to find you—anywhere in London. Good evening, Fred.”

He stalked from the tavern, only letting his shoulders relax when he’d left it. He walked to the corner, turned it, stepped into a shadow, and waited. It wasn’t long before the slight man who had been at the tap scurried out, looked around, and hurried down the street. Alasdair eased out of the shadows and followed, even though he was certain that he was being followed, too.

He lost the furtive man in the mists, but Alasdair thought he knew the way anyway. He walked to a dark street by the river, then went down a few old stone steps and opened a weathered door. There was no sign over the door. Those who came there didn’t need one. He knew he’d come to the right place by how utterly still it got when he did. The gin shop was small and dirty, packed with bodies that hadn’t seen much water since it had last rained. There was so much smoke the candle flames had to leap to be seen, but they might have been hopped higher because everyone’s breath was so soaked in spirits. The smell was indescribable. Which was fortunate, Alasdair thought. Because those who could describe it by comparing it to anything else they’d experienced were truly damned. The patrons of this place looked it.

The men and women in the gin house were danger
ous. Their faces showed they’d nothing to lose but their lives, and that those lives were the least of what they had. These were people who scraped together livings from the leftovers of others’ lives, or stole them outright, or sold themselves so they could buy what the others stole.

There were mudlarks, black with muck, still reeking from hours of plodding along the banks of the Thames searching for lost treasure, and that was anything that could yet be sold. They, and the many prostitutes in the place, at least worked for their living. The others were thieves of every rank. The better dressed were those who met the public, running confidence games, passing counterfeit money, or keeping clerks busy while their mates lifted merchandise. The other thieves who frequented the place didn’t worry about appearance because they hoped no one would ever see them. After all, it was hard to see someone who crept up behind you and stole your purse, or waited until you were asleep and crept down your chimney and looted your house, or did that after they smashed your windows, or your head.

Everyone stopped talking to stare at the big gentleman who loomed in the doorway. He was obviously rich, and just as obviously looking for someone. He was either out of his mind, in which case he’d be out of his money as well as his boots before another hour passed—or he was out for them. Most of the denizens of the gin shop believed the latter, and tried to look innocent, or started to edge toward the back exit. Lolly Lou looked up, saw the dark, dangerous gentleman on the doorstep, and smiled.

Alasdair saw him immediately. Short and grimy, as round as he was tall, with a bald head and barrel chest, Lolly was holding court at a side table. He was dressed
in mimicry of a gentleman’s garb, but his clothing was as soiled as it was out of fashion. The elusive man Alasdair had followed was at his side, but he winked out of sight as soon as Alasdair’s sharp gaze lit on him.

Others at the table moved away, too, but the hulking man standing behind Lolly stayed where he was. He looked like he could crush anything or anyone without thinking, because for him crushing was easier than thinking.

“Look who’s here!” Lolly said. “Come in, Sir Alasdair. If you’ve come in peace. If not…” He waggled one finger in the air, “You’ll leave in pieces, I think. The advantage is mine this time, ain’t it?”

“No,” Alasdair said as he came up to the table. The hulking man followed, coming to stand behind him. Alasdair ignored him, fixing his dark gaze on Lolly. “It never was, and never shall be,” Alasdair said. “I need a word with you, and I want it in private.”

“Ah, well,
I
want a bag full of king’s faces all clinking together,” Lolly said. “Gold makes such a nice sound when it’s jostled, don’t it? But I take what I can get, because I know the way of things. Now, to my way of thinking, you’ve got power because of your name and your money. But I have all my friends here, which weighs more right now, do you think?”

“You tell me,” Alasdair said, reaching down, taking Lolly’s grimy neckcloth in one clenched fist, and hauling him to his feet. “You’re having me watched, Lolly. I will know why.”

Lolly didn’t answer. He stayed rigid in Alasdair’s clasp. But Alasdair saw the glint in Lolly’s eye as he looked over Alaisdair’s shoulder.

One of Alasdair’s elbows went back and crashed into something that felt like living lead. With his other hand he swung Lolly around so he bounced off the
huge man’s chest as he approached. It bothered Lolly more than the giant, who didn’t seem to notice.

Alasdair let go of Lolly. The mammoth was a head taller than he, and built along the lines of a barn. He was thick-necked and dull-eyed, but there was implacable intent in those bovine eyes as he reached for Alasdair. His intended victim knew that if the giant reached him, he’d be picked up and would be lucky if he were only thrown out the door. Alasdair took a step back. He heard Lolly laugh. A few in the crowd of spectators jeered.

“Hutch will teach you to mend your manners,” Lolly said, catching his breath. “Don’t kill him, Hutch,” he directed the giant. “Only make him wish you had, eh?”

The giant nodded and moved forward.

Alasdair swung his fist and connected with a jaw that felt like an oak door. Hutch blinked. Alasdair flexed his aching hand, gritted his teeth, and drove his other fist in the giant’s belly. It was like hitting the side of a cow. But the cow might have reacted. Hutch didn’t even grunt. Someone in the crowd laughed, others were too busy calling odds and making bets. The odds, Alasdair was grimly amused to hear, were on his chances of living through the beating Hutch would deliver.

Hutch threw a punch. Alasdair absorbed the blow on the side of the head. It made his ears ring. But the man’s fists weren’t as strong as his body or Alasdair would have been on the floor. It was often so with gigantic men, their size did the work their uncoordinated bodies could not. That was what Alasdair needed to know. He straightened and waited.

The crowd was delighted. Their catcalls showed what they thought of a nob who was too stupid to run and too much of a milksop to strike back. Keener eyes
also took note of the fact that the gent was also togged out in the latest store of fashion, meaning his tightly fitted jacket didn’t give him much room to move his wide shoulders. He’d flicked open the buttons on that jacket as well as his waistcoat, but he was also limited by a high neckcloth. Hutch was dressed in old, loose clothing. The odds on the gent surviving went down further.

Hutch moved in and swung a meaty fist. His eyes opened in surprise as he felt that fist captured in his supposed victim’s hand. His reaction was slow, Alasdair’s was not.

The crowd saw the gentleman spin around, drag his huge attacker’s arm behind his back, and bend it upward. Alasdair was behind Hutch now, and he pushed him. Hutch stumbled and fell, because the gent’s boot had been interposed between his own feet.

Hutch rose from the floor with a roar and lunged back again. The gentleman’s reactions were so fast no one in the crowd could tell if it was a boot or a fist that got Hutch in the nose this time.

The next blow made Hutch grunt. Those who blinked missed the way the gent then turned, making Hutch’s enraged drive forward send him flying into the wall headfirst. Everyone saw Hutch climb to his feet and, growling, pick up one of the stout wood tables and hold it at arm’s length above his head as he glowered at the gent. They winced as they saw the gentleman duck down and charge—forward. Then, somehow, the table went crashing across the room, with Hutch following, his nose streaming blood.

Lolly stopped it. “Have done!” he shouted. “Hutch.
Down!
” he commanded. Hutch, obedient, sat where he was.

“Now,” Alasdair told Lolly, his words loud in the ut
ter stillness of the room, “that…private conference…I wanted. Here, or in the street. Your choice. In a minute, it will be mine. I don’t think you’ll care for that.”

“I have more friends,” Lolly said, his eyes darting around the room.

Alasdair nodded. “Yes. But I do have that name and rank you mentioned. Fighting man to man is fair. Murder, however, is not. Don’t even think it. I remind you that it will out. In my case, especially. You have too many witnesses, I have too much of that name and rank you mentioned before.”

Lolly’s smile grew flat. “Aye. Never let it be said I don’t fight fair neither. Well, then. Have a seat, and we’ll have a chat. What are you all staring at?” he asked the crowd.

They went back to their tables, their voices rising as they made noise to show Lolly they weren’t staring or listening.

Alasdair didn’t move. “You want me to discuss my business, and
yours
, here?” he asked with a mocking smile.

Lolly froze. “Ah, well. Come on in the back then,” he said with a forced smile. “There’s an alley there.”

“Only a madman would go into an alley with you, Lolly,” Alasdair said. “Or a suicide too lazy to do the deed himself. We can step outside, though.”

Lolly followed Alasdair out the front door.

They stood in front of the gin shop, only the lantern on the ledge above the door giving Lolly light enough to see Alasdair’s expression. He wished he couldn’t. “Now, then, what’s your question?” he asked with false composure.

Alasdair raised one dark eyebrow.

Lolly fidgeted. “You know why I’m watching you,” he finally said. “Same reason I heard you were paying
good coin to keep an eye on them. Aye, the Scalbys. They have enough brass to have His Majesty watched in his bath. They want reports on what you’re doing. I tell them, that’s all.”

“It has nothing to do with your personal feelings?”

“Oh, that. Water under the bridge. A man in my line of work don’t bear grudges.”

“Who do you think you’re talking to? Grudges are your stock in trade,” Alasdair said with weary patience. “Mine, too, so I understand you very well. Now listen,” he said grimly, “I queered your game once. You passed some time at the pleasure of His Majesty in Newgate because of it. That’s true. But I could have had you hanged.”

Alasdair’s expression stopped Lolly from interrupting. “I never believed your excuse that you thought the Frenchman was merely a smuggler bringing in wine for you to sell. But I could never prove what I thought you’d given him to smuggle out of the country either. Treason’s a hanging offense, and so in spite of my misgivings I didn’t let them drag you to Tyburn Hill. Neither did I let your friends here know my suspicions, or they’d have scragged you in far less elegant style, and you know it. They’re not gentlemen, but don’t be deceived. They
are
Englishmen. They lost limbs, friends, fathers, and sons in the war, too. It wasn’t charity on my part. I couldn’t be sure, and I have morals, in my fashion. But anything you do now makes me wonder about my compassion then, Lolly, it really does.”

“My watching you’s got nothing to do with that!” Lolly protested.

“Be sure of that,” Alasdair said, biting off each word. “I don’t care what you report to the Scalbys. But I am not His Majesty. You can’t station your ferrets in
my water closet. Watch if you want, but from afar. Make me forget that you’re watching, as well as existing.
And don’t get in my way
. Or this time I won’t care if I can’t prove anything.”

Alasdair straightened his cuffs, dipped his head in a mock bow, and paced off into the night.

Lolly stood watching him. As did others, from the shadows.

“I
must talk with you,” Kate said as she took Alasdair’s hand.

“Anytime,” he answered as he turned away from her.

“I meant alone,” Kate answered before the figure of the dance parted them again.

When Alasdair came back to her, he said, “How delightful. Of course. I’m flattered and more eager than you. Name the place and we’ll slip way. To a dark corner, or the garden?”

She controlled her temper. “I mean just talk. And you know it.”

“Behold me crushed,” he said, and grinned so suddenly she forgave him his jest. “Why not now?”

“It’s private,” she said before she stepped down the line of dancers again. “About a problem. It can wait, but I’d rather talk about it tonight.”

“At dinner then,” he told her when the dance brought them together again.

She nodded, wishing again that there was a simple way a single woman could speak privately to a man. It was absurd how people in London seemed to think men were so heated by their passions that they’d attempt to violate a female the minute they were alone with one. Kate grew even more indignant thinking about it, until she thought about the passions of the man she wanted to speak to, and almost missed her step.

Even so, however murky his past, the man hardly had to attack a woman. From what she’d seen, the assault would probably go the other way round, at least to judge from the way the other ladies were eyeing him that night. Which was the same way they always did. Still, he’d never been anything but a gentleman to her. Those heated looks he bent on her were for others’ eyes to see, and she never forgot it. It was maddening that she had so few opportunities to talk to him in private. There was always a relative or a servant within earshot when he was near.

Now she’d told him she had a problem. Whatever his sins, she believed Sir Alasdair was a man who knew how to solve problems. Especially the sort that involved getting a woman alone.

Kate watched Alasdair as he stepped through the dance with consummate grace. Not precisely grace, she corrected herself. He was much too large for leaping or pirouetting, he didn’t caper or posture the way other men who styled themselves fine dancers did. He simply moved in time with the music, that big frame of his keeping to the rhythm but not flaunting it. He made it seem as masculine as riding a horse, as effortless as the way he strolled down the street. She couldn’t help being flattered that she was his partner at this ball, and was dismayed about how flattered she was.

After all, this was all a pose, a favor she was doing him. It was just unfortunate that the more she did the more she found herself regretting that when her task was done he’d be fair game for other women, the ones he needed that veneer of respectability for. That was nonsense, and she knew it. That was exactly the problem.

They’d been together often in the past days. Not all the time, of course. They didn’t want the rumors of his interest in her turning to talk of imminent marriage, because then no matter what he said when they parted she’d look like a jilt. A flirtation was different. Anyone could cut off a flirtation and come out of it unscathed. That they were having, and they’d managed to see each other often enough to make the point. Daytime saw them sharing rides and walks. Evenings they were together, as tonight, at this ball.

Kate didn’t have to pretend her interest in him, the man could interest a rock. She could only hope beneath the careful fabrication there’d also been some real pleasure on his part. She thought she’d done her part well. They’d always found something to talk about, whether it was gossip or a discussion of the state of their world. They never spoke about anything significant, yet they were always talking. She felt triumphant whenever it seemed she might really be amusing him.

But the more she saw him and other women’s reaction to him, the more she wondered why the devil the man insisted he needed her to make him respectable. Worse, the more she saw him the guiltier she felt. He’d said she was the perfect person to pretend to court because she knew his attentions for what they were and wasn’t susceptible to him. She wasn’t sure of that anymore.

Because she truly looked forward to seeing him. He was the best thing she’d found in London, more interesting than any man she’d ever met at home, and certainly the most attractive. His face and voice and form projected a magnetism that was nearly overwhelming. She firmly suppressed those reactions to him. Or tried to. Beyond all that, and that was more than she’d ever experienced, she discovered she liked him enormously.

Of course she knew he wasn’t really courting her. But she hadn’t realized how good an actor he was. While he was convincing others, it was too bad that he sometimes convinced her, too. She, of all people, should know how ludicrous it was to think the worldly Sir Alasdair St. Erth wanted to make love to her, even if he could! His torrid gazes had a purpose, they both knew it. It was all for show, that was the point of their association. So it was unreasonable that she found herself beginning to hate the day the deception would be over. Unreasonable, irrational, neither sensible nor good for her.

The music ended. Alasdair bowed and let her new partner claim her. That was another thing, Kate thought as she took another man’s hand. Her dance card was filled. Sir Alasdair had given her popularity. Some men wanted to see what had captivated St. Erth, others sought instant fame, hoping to capture some of his shine by dancing attention on his latest flirt. She’d little to offer but her hand in the dance and knew very well that was all they sought it for. Their interest in her was limited to their interest in gossip.

So Alasdair had accomplished his aims. But he was making hers harder, which was why she had to talk with him, and soon.

She danced with a vapid young lord, which let her concentrate on watching Alasdair dance with a ravish
ing brunette. He wore black, as usual, but his waistcoat was celestial blue laced with gold. It seemed to Kate that he was in his perfect setting. And what a setting it was!

They danced across a magnificent ballroom. The floor, when Kate could see it through the crowd of swirling dancers, was intricately inlaid mosaic marble. The lofty domed ceiling was covered with frescoes of mythological heroes and heroines, the background awash in tones of pink, peach, sky blue, and gold. The walls were saffron, outlined in gilt and leaf green. Fluted ivory columns held up the divine ceiling, myriad candles in crystal chandeliers suffused everything with gold.

The scene looked magical and mythical, reminding Kate that it was exactly that for her. It might be Alasdair’s natural element, but it certainly wasn’t hers. She couldn’t wait for dinner, and not because she was hungry. The sooner she spoke with him, the better for her state of mind. And heart.

Alasdair reclaimed her when the music stopped. The ballroom doors were flung open so the throng could enter the room next door for dinner. It was a lucky thing Kate wasn’t hungry. It seemed to take forever to get to a table. First, she had to wait as Alasdair was stopped by curious partygoers asking questions. Then he hung back, waiting at the entrance to the dining room as others took their seats or milled around the buffet tables.

“Why are we waiting?” she asked curiously.

“You wanted to speak to me in private,” he answered as he surveyed the room. “So we need a table away from the crowd, close enough to the horde for propriety, and far enough from your cousins, most of whom are here tonight, I see.”

She nodded glumly. Sibyl was with Leigh. But tonight Sibyl’s other siblings had come as well, including two of her married sisters and their unfortunate husbands. Except for Sibyl and her mother, the other Swanson females were unpleasant company. They were still fierce rivals, to each other and any other female who came within their orbit. Being raised in such a competitive atmosphere had left its mark. They weren’t any happier about their country cousin’s sudden social success than Kate was with them.

Alasdair took Kate to a table set far from the long buffet, the punch bowl, and any Swansons. He pulled out a chair for her, signaled a footman, ordered some wine, and then looked at Kate. “I’ll get you something to eat. What do you prefer?”

“Don’t bother,” she said. “I prefer getting my dinner myself.”

He shook his head. “That will never do. An attentive gentleman waits on his lady.”

“That’s exactly what I want to talk about,” she said eagerly. “I can skip the food, but I must speak with you.”

“It will look odd if you’re not eating. Still, if you prefer to sit staring into my eyes, transfixed by me, that would do, I suppose. At least for our little plot. But not for me. You see, I’m hungry. Dancing isn’t hard work, but all that incessant smiling is.”

“Oh, go get some food then,” she said crossly.

“I’ll wait. On second thought, it’s a better idea not to join the first wave of invaders. There’s some trampling over by the aspics and the scene at the shellfish display is getting feral. I hope no one gets bitten. I imagine they’ve held some food in reserve for those who don’t choose to fight for it.” He sat and turned his attention to her. “So. Tell me what’s bothering you.”

He stripped off his gloves, folded his hands on the tabletop, and smiled at her. She looked down quickly because he was still playing the game, and that smile was dangerous even though she knew it was only a game. Her attention was caught by the state of his hands. He had wonderful hands, she’d noticed that right away, large and powerful, with long fingers, broad palms, and strong wrists. Unlike the pale white hands most London gentlemen took pride in, his looked like they were actually capable of work. But now she saw they looked like they’d been ill-used. His knuckles were bruised, striped with dark red scrapes.

Kate couldn’t help the little lurch in her stomach at the thought of his being hurt. Liking him was more dangerous than being infatuated with him, because it was even more foolish and futile. They’d never be lovers. And given the state of their world, they could never really be friends either.

He saw the direction of her stare. “I see you’ve noticed my wounds,” he said, flexing his hand and looking at it. “Don’t worry. I richly deserve them. They’re from a bout at Gentleman Jackson’s boxing saloon.”

“Who won?”

“Need you ask?” he said with mock surprise.

“Never mind,” she said. “The thing is…” She had to pause while the footman delivered the wine, sitting quietly through the ritual as Alasdair sipped it before nodding acceptance. “I think our scheme has worked,” she said as soon as the footman left. “I think you’re respectable as houses now and can court a royal princess if you choose.”

“One doesn’t have to be respectable to do that,” he said with a smile. “At any rate, I don’t think you’re right—at least, not entirely. Our courtship has obviously startled people, and some are impressed by it,
true. But it’s much too soon to have changed their minds about me. If we part now, even on the best of terms, it will only convince them they were right to doubt me. Because just see how wicked St. Erth couldn’t stay with a respectable young woman above a fortnight? No, though I’m delighted with our progress, there’s a long road ahead.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “For example, do you think your own relatives entirely believe our mutual state of infatuation so soon in the game?”

She thought a moment. “Well, Sibyl knows all, of course. Lady Swanson is a dear and believes the best of everyone. The fact that I’ve attracted so much company to her house pleases her very much. My cousin, Lord Swanson, likes me, so I think he doesn’t find it strange that you might, too. But as for his other daughters? They believe the worst of everyone and nothing anyone says would convince them otherwise.”

“I meant your other relatives here in London.”

She frowned. “Oh, you mean Lord and Lady North, Baron Chadwick, and the Deals? The Norths are your friends, too, so you can tell them what to think. The others hardly know me well enough to care at all.”

His expression was bland, but he persisted. “I thought you had more relatives here in London.”

“I do. There are the Brentwoods, Sir Fane and his lady, Lord Ross, and the Hopes. But they don’t know me, so why should they even care? I suppose they would if we really were going to marry, but even then only enough to wonder what to give as a wedding present. Of course, there’s our cousin, His Grace, the Duke of Tarlyton. But he’s so old one hardly ever sees him, and his son, who seems to be a very nice man, is still in Vienna.”

“I heard you were also related to the Scalbys,” Alasdair said carefully.

“Oh. Them. Yes, I am. But to tell the truth, I try to forget that.” She saw his expression and stammered. “I—I’m sorry, are they particular friends of yours? Forgive me.”

“I knew them once upon a time, but no, they’re not particular friends.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s good, because I didn’t want to say anything rude. It’s nothing they ever did to me, you see. But I’ve always been uncomfortable with them. One hears stories…It’s not just that. The few times I saw them when I was young, at family affairs, funerals, and weddings and such, they frightened me. Well, they were so lofty, elegant, world-weary and—how can I say this?—they seemed threatening. That’s me, not them, because they’ve never done anything menacing. But even when I saw them again later, before they went abroad, they made me uneasy.”

She smiled at him. “Idiotic of me, isn’t it? But the more they tried to be nice, instead of putting me at my ease, they made me more uncomfortable! She’s very beautiful, isn’t she?” Kate asked wistfully. “She seems polished to a high sheen, face, form and voice. And even though he dresses in old-fashioned styles, or maybe because he does, he was the most elegant gentleman I had ever seen. But they look at a person as though from a height, and always seem to be secretly amused. Maybe everyone
is
a provincial compared to them, I certainly am. But I don’t like feeling like one.

“I expect they’re very well known, and so I suppose I should have mentioned them when I spoke about my relatives,” she went on with a small shrug. “But there you are. I avoid even thinking about them. I suppose I
should visit them while I’m in London, if only for the look of it. Truthfully, I’ve been putting it off.”