Maggie MacKeever (16 page)

Temple Bar archway lay before her, the boundary between the City and Westminster, where the Strand became Fleet Street. A few yards further lay old St. Dunstan’s Church, its two giants striking
the hours. Fleet Street was home to the London press as well as coffee shops and taverns; a favorite haunt of showmen, popular exhibitions, and freaks. Many Londoners still mourned the recent closing of Mrs. Salmon’s Wax Works, most specifically tableaux that depicted shepherds and shepherdesses making violent love.

Salisbury Court then, and finally her destination. Julie gazed up at the old building as she paused to catch her breath. The fanciful structure suited its current owner. No more than Ned did Wakely Court care about taking on the trappings of an earl.

She rounded a corner. The library windows loomed high above her head. Fortunately, the drainpipes were of newer construction than the house itself.

The library window opened easily, as it had before. The room was no less cluttered than on her last visit. Julie didn’t see how a person could read so many books in ten lifetimes.

She eased over the sill. An ancient carved chair was pulled up before the fire burning low in the hearth. In the chair sprawled the current earl. He wore boots and breeches and a loose linen shirt. In one hand he held a brandy glass.

He was watching her. “Why are you in my house and dressed like that?”

Julie winched at the chill in his voice. She was the one with a right to temper, wasn’t she, so why should his annoyance make her belly churn? “I didn’t expect that you’d be awake.”

“I was remembering Badajoz.” He lowered his gaze to his glass. “There was a complete breakdown of discipline when the town finally fell. Drinking, raping, looting. Several officers were injured trying to restrain their men. Before it was over, a number of soldiers had been hanged in the town’s main square.”

Since he didn’t seem inclined to toss her out, Julie wandered around the room. Her last trip had not allowed for a leisurely inspection. “I have bad dreams too, sometimes.”

Ned glanced at her. “What are your bad dreams about?”

“This and that.” Mostly Cap’n Jack. A book lay open on the table at his elbow. Julie craned her neck to see the title.

“John Debrett’s
Peerage of England, Scotland and Ireland.
Have you brought back my stolen property?”

Julie pulled the statue out of her jacket and held it out to him. Ned said, “And so, Taweret returns. You’re done with me, then.”

What she was, was moon-mad. Julie dropped down on the floor in front of his chair and wrapped her arms around her knees. Rose’s words echoed in her mind.
‘Does he take your fancy, Jules?’

Ned turned the statue over, inspected the strange hieroglyphic markings on the base. “Do you know what a cipher is, Miss Wynne?”

What Julie knew was that his lordship’s shirt was open at the throat, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of sun-bronzed chest. There was a dark edge to him tonight, as if he hovered much closer to the adventurer than the earl. “I had four years to learn my way about your world. Some things got left out.”

“Four years?” Ned set the statue on the table beside his book and brandy glass.

“After I was taken out of Newgate. Rose taught me to act the lady then.”

“And why did she do that?”

“Neither of us had a choice.” Thought of what Cap’n Jack would do if he knew of this conversation sent a shiver along Julie’s spine.

“Since you fear being clapped back in Newgate, I assume your friend is also being blackmailed. As well as Niddicock, which would explain your presence in Ashcroft House.” Ned leaned forward and pulled off her cap. “I don’t expect you’ll tell me who your master is. What is it you’re to snaffle next?”

He smoothed his fingers through her curls. Julie wished she were Ophelia, so that she might purr. “I don’t know who he is, or what. Ask me no more questions, for I have already said more than I should. I’m sorry I hit you so hard.”

“It’s I who should apologize.” Ned put his hand beneath her chin and tipped up her face. “For kissing you.”

He’d lit a fire in her was what he’d done, and only he could put it out. Julie was acutely aware that she was alone with him in his library, the rest of the world fast asleep, including his sister and their dog.

Ned would have kissed a lot of ladies. Both Georgiana and Rose had told her so, not that Julie couldn’t have figured that out for herself.

No doubt those other women were much more skilled at such things than she. “You didn’t enjoy it,” she said.

“I meant that it wasn’t well done of me.” Ned grasped her wrists and drew her closer, until she knelt on her knees between his spread thighs. “As for kissing you, I enjoyed it very much. It occurs to me that I’ve never kissed someone wearing breeches. I think I must discover what it’s like.”

He pulled her up to him. Julie went willingly. She smelled the brandy on his breath. Then he drew her closer and his mouth brushed against hers. It felt so lovely that Julie parted her lips and tried to kiss him back. She must have done it halfway right, because he groaned.

Julie rested her hands gingerly on Ned’s strong shoulders. His lips stroked down her throat. “You brought me my statue,” he murmured. “What shall I give you in return?”

Heaven, Julie thought, and wondered if she dared ask.

In Lady Jersey’s garden, he had touched her breast. He’d bent his head and put his mouth against her flesh. “You touched my, um, chest.”

“I did.”

“I would like to touch yours.”

Ned drew back to study her, then set her away from him and stood. Julie watched, bemused, as he crossed the room. The earl had a nice bottom. She could not recall having ever paid attention to a gentleman’s bottom before.

He locked the library door. Eyes fixed on hers, Ned pulled his shirt over his head, and let it fall to the floor.

Fine auburn hair dusted his broad chest, snaked down his flat belly to disappear beneath the waistband of his breeches. Julie was put in mind of the statues of ancient Greeks Rose had once taken
her to see. But Ned’s was a soldier’s body: lean, strongly defined with muscle, made imperfect by numerous scars. As he moved to stand in front of her, Julie rose shakily to her feet.

She placed her hands against his chest. The warmth of him swept up her arms and through her body and down to her toes.

Along the left side of his torso ran a jagged blemish. Julie traced it with her fingers. His muscles quivered under her touch. “Badajoz,” he said.

He was like some great jungle creature holding still so that she might pet him. Such beasts were dangerous, Julie reminded herself: they clawed and bit and maimed. She shrugged off her jacket, took hold of her own shirt.

“Let me.” Ned tugged the garment loose. His hands slid under the rough fabric. She shivered as his fingers brushed her bare skin. He kissed her again as he scooped her up in his arms, sank back down in the chair by the fire with her on his lap.

His hands stroked down the length of her, learning the curve of hip and thigh. He plucked out the knife she carried in her boot and raised an eyebrow.

“A person has to look out for herself.”

“You are the least defenseless female I have ever met.” Ned set the knife aside and bent his head to her throat. “The last time you were here, you modeled my drapery. I have wanted to see you that way again ever since. Does this feel good to you?” His tongue licked against her neck, across her collarbone, and lower. “And this?”

‘Good’ was far too bland a word. “I think, my lord, that you may be trifling with me now.”

Against her breast, she felt him smile. “You are most astute, Miss Wynne.”

His lips closed around her nipple, gently tugged. Sweet sensation swept over Julie. She squirmed around to sit facing him, straddling his lap, her most intimate parts pressed against his. “You must allow me to do some trifling of my own. It’s only fair.”

“Well, then.” Ned leaned back in his chair.

He was a feast set out before her. Julie couldn’t decide whether to begin at the top, or the bottom, or in between.

At the beginning, then. His eyes closed as she traced the contours of his face, his aristocratic cheekbones and wicked mouth and piratical chin. Further exploration revealed that Ned’s flat male nipples were as sensitive as her own. When she nibbled at his earlobe the bulge in his breeches grew larger, and hard as a stone.

Fascinating, the functioning of the male organ. Julie was impressed. Though she had scant practical experience of such matters, the earl’s dimensions seemed to her nothing short of remarkable.

He was hot. Very, very hot. Julie felt prodigious warm herself.

She wriggled. The bulge responded. Ned caught her hips, and held her motionless. “Stop now or I won’t be accountable for what happens. I’m not sober, as you may have guessed.”

He
was
a gentry cove. Whether he wished to be or no. Sober or cast-away. He rubbed shoulders with emperors and princes, wickedly dark gentlemen and ladies so lovely as to have stepped out of a fairy tale.

While Julie was a criminal, who would someday have her neck stretched. Life was precious to her, and entirely too short. “I don’t want to stop. If you
take my virtue, I won’t mind.”

Ned didn’t immediately answer. Julie bit her lip, wishing she might take back her words. Had Rose been present to hear such stuff come out of her mouth, she would have brought out a bar of soap.

But Rose wasn’t present, and Julie couldn’t unsay her rash invitation, could only wait and see what the earl would do. He didn’t seem flattered by her offer. Which wasn’t surprising. The man would have received countless prettier invitations than hers.

All the same, he might sham some appreciation. Instead he
said, “I’d advise you not to try and run a rig on me, my girl.” Before he could say more, there came a discreet tap on the door.

Julie scrambled to her feet. Ned pulled on his shirt. “That will be Bates.” He crossed the room and released the lock. Julie retrieved her jacket and tugged her clothing back into place.

The bellows-mender stood in the hallway. He had exchanged his costume for nondescript dark attire. “All’s quiet at Ashcroft House, sir. Everyone is safely abed.”

Julie cleared her throat. Bates looked around and scowled. “Miss Wynne is ready to go home,” said Ned. “You will see her safely there.”

Julie picked up her cap and jammed it on her curls. “No need. I know the way.” Spine stiff as a poker, she walked past Milord Aggravation and snatched Taweret up off his desk.

He swore and grabbed for her, but missed. Quick as lightning, Julie was out the open window and down the drainpipe and lost in the night.

Chapter Seventeen

What a pleasant stain comes from an enemy’s blood.
— Pubilius Syrus

London showed its true nature after dark, when the fog was thick, and the lamplight dim. The worst house burglaries took place then, the most violent crimes, as the denizens of the underworld ventured in search of prey. Resurrection men sought out corpses for resale to surgeons. Whores whispered obscene invitations from darkened doorways. Reckless young lordlings wagered entire fortunes in establishments where wiser men never set foot, thereby leaving themselves open to assault and theft and blackmail. It was Cap’n Jack’s favorite time of day.

His coach rattled slowly through the gloom, past a ramshackle collection of stalls and sheds where a fruit and vegetable and flower market squatted smack in the middle of the square. Public houses stayed open late near Covent Garden due to the market, the public theaters, the coachmen’s watering-houses located nearby. Women could be found any way one fancied here: dressed or no, tight-laced or loose, painted or fresh-faced. Bound up. Done up. Raw. An annual list of prostitutes was hawked under the Piazza, stating details of age and appearance, the specialties for which each harlot was remarkable, along with places of residence.

The hackney rolled to a stop. Cap’n Jack paid off the driver and sent him away.

Inigo Jones’s Piazza had arcaded houses to the north and east. To the west was the church of St Paul. A soldier had once been hanged in the market for running from his colours, and the poet Dryden assaulted as result of some unwise verse. Today a man could scarce walk down the street at midday without risking his handkerchief, pocket book or watch.

A hand tugged at the Cap’n’s sleeve. The hand was attached to a street doxy with soiled fingers and dirty hair. A virgin might have ten guineas for parting with her maidenhead, several times over. What was lost could be surgically restored.

This one’s maidenhead would be long past replacing. She was no longer young. Cap’n Jack raised his walking stick, brought it down hard on her grasping fingers. The doxy whimpered and melted back into the night.

A large wooden sign hung outside the tavern, on it a faded painting of the three pigeons after which the place was named. Beyond the narrow doorway lay a long covered passage that opened into a well-lighted quadrangle, around which stood the tavern
rooms. The Three Pigeons was popular with actors and managers from the nearby theaters. It was the resort of men of fashion and loose character, and women of no character at all; the scene of midnight orgies and drunken brawls where murders and assaults frequently occurred.

Cap’n Jack followed rowdy voices and laughter deeper into the house. The taproom was long and low-ceilinged, the air thick with tobacco smoke. Small lamps glowed in the corners. Sawdust was strewn on the floor. The Cap’n paused to let his eyes adjust to the shadows, ordered an egg-hot, then continued on his way.

The next chamber was in an uproar. Spectators mounted upon chairs, tables and benches were cheering on two half-naked wenches engaged in a shrieking, scratching, hair-pulling wrestling match on the floor. In the third room a posture woman was going through her paces, which involved a paucity of clothing, a massive silver platter, and an ingenious use of vegetables and fruit, Covent Garden market being just outside the door. Pritchett stood apart from the business, looking as if he wished he might arrest everybody present on charges of obscenity.