Her Quicksilver Lover: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 6 (10 page)

Careful to close the door properly, since it stuck on mornings like this when rain sleeted over the streets, Joanna hunched her shoulders, pulled her hat over her forehead, and took the first step in her long walk. A hackney cab stood in the road, the horse steaming gently and the driver muffled in so many layers of clothing that his own mother would not have recognised him. Joanna thought longingly of the dry warmth to be had, and then shook off her melancholy. If she married the viscount’s son—if he was such—she could afford hackney cabs in weather like this.

“Miss Spencer!”

Her head went up at the male bellow, sending a drip of water from an overhanging roof into her right eye. Screwing it up to get rid of it, she turned to discover who owned the voice.

The man sitting on the driving perch of the cab flourished his whip. “Are you Miss Joanna Spencer?”

She blinked, and the water trickled down her face. “Yes. What of it? Do you have a message?”

“A ride.”

He must have seen the name on the plaque outside the print shop. “I can’t afford a ride.” Why haver about the truth?

“It’s paid for.”

Immediately her thoughts went to their visitor last night. “I’m on my way somewhere.”

“I’m paid to take you to St. James’s Palace and leave you at the corner. Is that right?”

“Y-yes. Who sent you?”

“He says he’s looking forward to seeing you. He didn’t leave a name. A tall man, skinny, around forty, grey eyes. Dressed like a butler.”

Lightfoot? Then the cab had come from Amidei. She shouldn’t accept, she really should not, but the rain would drench her before she got to the club, and she’d have to spend all day in damp, steaming clothes. She should perhaps take a change of clothing to the club for days like this. If she had more than three outfits, she probably would.

The rain had puddled in the street, so even ankle-length skirts weren’t safe. She had to lift them and her cloak to her knees to get through the wet to where the cabbie waited. He wasn’t about to climb down to open the door for her, so she turned the brass lever and climbed in.

The driver set off immediately. Even though the carriage smelled none too good, the leather upholstery was faded and split in places, and gaps showed between the planks that made it up, Joanna could imagine she was a great lady bowling along the streets to visit her latest lover. Or to go shopping, dawdling at the toyshop to decide between fans, and buying a dozen pairs of silk, embroidered stockings for her underwear drawer. Joanna had a very good imagination.

Once, a very long time ago, she’d had silk stockings, but she’d been much smaller then and her father had more money. When that pair had worn out, they’d been replaced with a wool pair, but then her mother had been alive, and they were happy.

The city passed by the window, the cramped streets of the business end making way for the broad thoroughfares of the Strand and Piccadilly. They took the latter route, and her glimpses of the Thames showed her a swollen river, mist hanging over it in the early morning gloom. Her stomach growled, but she ignored it. Normally she would buy a penny pie from a shop on her route and eat it as she went. Perhaps Mr. Lightfoot would let her have a heel of bread with butter.

The coach ride was worth a little hunger. This was not the first time she’d felt it.

Her mind drifted back to the two men who had unexpectedly entered her life. Although Patrick was dark in colouring, he was taking the role of the angel, the benefactor, the man who had offered her respectability. But did he really mean it? Joanna suspected not. He was dangling the possibility before her like a carrot before a donkey. He’d admitted the betrothal was a subterfuge, in any case. He wanted to speak with her privately, but he did not want to ruin her reputation, such as it was. Which was considerate of him, she supposed.

So why did her heart
not
quicken and her breath shorten when in his presence?

She could think properly, her mind without the turmoil that Amidei sent it into.

There, she’d said his name, if only in her mind.
Amidei, Amidei, Amidei.
However much she repeated it, the name lost none of its potency. Sitting in the warm, damp, slightly odorous confines of the cab, she laughed. She was being foolish, a child reaching for a toy she could never have. Except that he had offered her something no respectable woman would ever accept. Not a respectable unmarried woman, that was.

Why then did she yearn to take it? Why believe him? What was the point of respectability? He made no secret of his Italian origins and the time he’d spent in France. Both countries were opposed to Britain and its German monarchs, both known to send spies from time to time. At the moment Europe was at peace, but it was an uneasy peace, and most people expected war to break out again before too long.

Joanna grabbed the fraying strap on the door as the cab swung around a corner, heading away from the river and its dank secrets. Every day ferrymen and other workers found bodies floating in it. Suicides, murders, and just plain accidents. It was a good way to get rid of an inconvenient body. The club was close enough for two strong men to take a dead body down and toss it in.

Now her imagination was running away with her.

Was Amidei setting up a nest of spies? If he was, Joanna had seen no evidence of it. The Pantheon Club entertained the greatest in the land, apart from the stuffy members who refused to have anything to do with a mixed club. More fools them.

She forced herself to go through the possibilities, the ways people could pass hidden messages.

The betting book, maybe she should try to look at that. In common with other London clubs, the Pantheon held a book to record debts, odds, and stakes set on the premises. That would make an excellent disguise for a list of spies, or another such list.

A man with a drawing room facing St. James’s Palace could take note of the comings and goings of the King and his ministers. Except that the King disliked the Palace and preferred to live out at Kensington. A spy would get better information working at Kensington or Whitehall. This was not a political club. Partisans kept their preferences out of the Pantheon.

Another corner sharply taken made her tumble to the side, and she was forced to hold her hand out to steady herself. The wrench gave her momentary pain, but she could not allow another accident to create an injury that made her unable to work. To her relief, the sting was momentary, a mere prick from one of the upholstery nails, and she could hold it away from her. It did not bleed a great deal, and by the time it had stopped, they had arrived.

The coachman dropped her at the end of the street, so she had a matter of a hundred steps before she reached the servants’ door of the Club. Joanna thanked the man, and got out. Immediately someone got in the other side, and the man whipped up his horse and was away. Joanna’s respite was over and she was back on the ground once more. The slippery ground. Here, where the rich congregated, pavements had been laid, so she could walk on a relatively smooth surface instead of the cobbles which preponderated in the city. She didn’t even have to lift her skirts clear of the muck.

For all that, she loved the narrow streets and energy of the city. That was where people made a difference, where rich lived alongside poor and where she’d grown up. The broad streets, the grand carriages and the people with their noses in the air in this part of town made her feel unwelcome, as if she didn’t belong, and that, in its turn, made her angry.

She crossed the road where Pall Mall met St. James’s Street, and set off for the servants’ area at the side of the building. Entering, she was immediately assailed by damp heat, a result of the kitchen being so close to the narrow stone stairs that led down. As she clattered down them, she recalled that she must be very early. Perhaps she could beg a bite after all.

Steam rose from the row of drying outer garments hanging on the long row of pegs in the main hall that traversed the building. She was not the only outdoor servant here. She added her own to the row and headed for the kitchen.

The kitchen was a-bustle, preparing the early morning repasts for the guests upstairs and the master of the house. The smells wafting around—baking bread, bacon sizzling on the hob, mingled with the roasting meats already turning on the spits in preparation for breakfast later in the day—evoked a rumble deep in her stomach.

Mrs. Crantock the cook, looked her up and down as she entered the kitchen. “Sit down,” she ordered.

Joanna gratefully took a seat next to one of the housemaids. Early as she was, the domestic staff would have been up earlier, cleaning and preparing the main rooms to face the day. A plate was put before her and she set to, devouring the meal with relish.

“You’re early,” one of the girls remarked.

“Hmm,” she said, picking up the dish of tea set down with the food. The dish was thick, cheap white china and had a finger loop on the side. Easier to drink from, certainly. She took a grateful slurp. “I got a ride down here. Usually I walk.”

“That takes a while.”

She shrugged. “About an hour. Less if I hurry and it’s a good day.” Usually she preferred to take her time, so she set out an hour early. She had a little more than three miles to traverse, by her reckoning. It kept her legs in prime form, which was as well, since she spent much of the day here on her feet.

“How’s your ankle?”

Two of the maids looked up, taking her in with more interest. Ah, so they’d been gossiping. But then, what could she expect? “It’s fine now. A lot of fuss about nothing.”

“Not from what I heard,” the maid next to her, a winsome girl of around eighteen called Jane, said. “Mr. Lightfoot said his lordship didn’t want to take the risk.”

“Not for me,” she said. “His lordship was worried that one of the guests would slip.” The last thing she wanted was for her fellow workers to think she’d been treated as a special case. “That’s why I got the day off. He said I’d done him a favour, because if one of the guests had fallen there would have been hell to pay.”

“Ha!” Jane pointed a finger at Betty on the other side of the table. “I told you there was a push for safety! Do you know at least three times yesterday I had to put guards in front of the fires? Mr. Lightfoot is meticulous about sparks. After all, that building down the street went up in flames last year. And all because of an unguarded fire, they say.”

“Jane got a bonus for that,” Betty said. “The checking, I mean.”

As she was finishing her meal, Mr. Lightfoot entered the room and glanced around. “Ah, yes. I have an order from Lord d’Argento. He wants someone to go up every afternoon, at about six, and clean and tidy his private rooms.” Everyone put down their cutlery and sat up straight. Joanna knew what was coming, but she did her best to look eager. “You, girl. You’ll do.”

“Yes sir,” Joanna said, relief mingling with apprehension. He’d said he would be waiting for her. Did that mean she would have to be more circumspect? The kisses and caresses had to stop, that was for sure, at least until she knew more.

Jane nudged her. “Promotion, you lucky thing!”

She finished her meal, exchanging light chatter with the other servants. If arriving early meant sharing breakfast, she might do it more often, she decided as she tied on her large, white apron and made sure she was neat and tidy, with all her hair tucked under her cap and her glasses perched on her nose. Amidei was right, she could see much better without them, but they were her disguise. Foolish, considering all that had happened, but she stubbornly stuck to her decision.

She was a maid, Joanna, and that was all. The spectacles helped to remind her of that. Upstairs, she went about her duties, helping to ready the dining room for breakfast. Most people ate at around noon, but had food informally. Few people waited for breakfast. She arranged the knives and forks daintily at a place, pleased with the precision of her arrangement, and moved on to the next. Of such small pleasures was life made, not the big ones that came more infrequently.

“Girl!”

Twice this morning Lightfoot had paid attention to her. He held a tray. “Take this upstairs to his lordship’s room. He called for it ten minutes ago and he hates to be kept waiting. Use the main stairs. They’re closer and he wants his coffee hot.”

She bobbed a curtsey, walking over and taking the heavy weight in her hands. She did not have to ask which lord. Amidei was “his lordship” in the club, even though there were other lords staying there. As she turned to leave, she spotted the clock sitting on the mantelpiece. “It’s early for him, isn’t it?”

Lightfoot lifted one shoulder in an infinitesimal shrug. “He tends to rise early, unless he has company.”

Heat rushed to her cheeks. There was only one way that sentence could be interpreted. Female company. Well, the company would not be her. She would not have people gossip about her. Being a single woman with few personal resources made preserving her good name that much more difficult. She would not throw it away on a whim. Or on a traitor.

“I suppose it takes hours for him to get ready,” she said cheekily, moving away before Lightfoot could respond. The factotum also worked as his master’s valet, although he had an assistant who made himself available when Lightfoot was about club business. No wonder he took his shoes and stockings off that night, and stretched them before the fire. He must be on his feet more than she was, and with his unfortunate condition walking and standing must surely be painful.

Out in the main hallway, the smell of fresh carpet came deliciously to her nostrils. They had laid thin runners over the landing where she’d slipped, and the stairs down to the main hall below and up to the next floor. Not because of her, but the potential danger. The carpeting made the hall less grandiose, but she certainly felt safer carrying a tray up the stairs.

Usually she would use the servants’ stairs, but Lightfoot had specifically told her to use these.

Upstairs, she tapped gently on the door to his lordship’s private drawing room, the main entrance to his suite. Nobody answered, but she went inside in any case.