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Authors: Shirlee Busbee

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BOOK: Whisper To Me of Love
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They all three smiled at one another, the bond between them very strong, and almost as one, three pairs of hands met in the middle of that scarred table and clasped one another tightly. “We'll find a way out of this dilemma somehow,” Jacko swore.
Pip shot him a cheeky grin. “Bloody right we will! But until then, I guess we had better content ourselves with plucking some ripe pigeons today at the sparring match.”
Ben was on the point of making a teasing comment when there was a sharp rap on the door. Instantly, whatever lightness there had been about them vanished, each one instinctively reaching for the knives they always carried. Swiftly they spread out in the room, Jacko silently approaching nearer the door.
“Who is it?” Jacko demanded gruffly.
“Now, who do you think it is?” came back from the other side of the door, the irritation in the cultured voice obvious.
There was only one person who talked that way in St. Giles, and all three Fowlers stiffened.
“The
dimber-damber!”
Pip whispered urgently. “What can he want? We have our plans for the day.”
Jacko shrugged and opened the door.
It was indeed the dimber-damber, and without a word, he stalked through the opened doorway, taking in with a single glance the aggressive stances of Pip and her brothers. A humorless smile curved his thin mouth and he shook his head slightly as if he was amused by their actions.
The dimber-damber was a well-made man and there was such an air of malevolent power about him that he appeared to dominate the room, dwarfing everybody and everything in it. Today, as usual, he was dressed all in black, from the black hat pulled low to the swirling black velvet cape and the gleaming black boots upon his feet. He carried a long black cane with a silver top, a cane that Pip knew concealed a sword in its slim length, and black leather gloves were on his slender hands. Even his skin was swarthy, and the few strands of hair that showed from beneath his hat were dark. The one eye he still possessed was black, and where the other should have been, he wore a black silk patch, which gave his already sinister appearance an even greater impact.
An aura of darkness surrounded him, something cold and evil entering the room when he did. He was the uncrowned king of St. Giles, his tentacles everywhere, his wishes carried out instantly and without question.... To disobey was certain death. It was whispered that even various members of the aristocracy feared him, that the dark deeds he committed for those unwise lords and ladies who were desperate enough to request his help became shackles that bound them to him.
He was a villainous, mysterious figure. Not the members of the aristocracy whom he held in his power, nor the minions of St. Giles who dared not thwart him, knew much about him. Not his past, nor his name, not where he lived, nor where he had come from, nor where or how he had come to lose his eye ... There were ancient thieves and worn-out old harlots who told tales about him stretching back for over thirty years, and yet he did not look to be more than forty-five years of age. Some claimed that he had made a pact with the devil. Because he was fastidious in his dress and manner and his speech was impeccable, even among the members of the knot, there was speculation that he was the bastard child of a great lord but had been raised as befitted the son of a member of the aristocracy. Gossip claimed that, using intricate disguises, he moved freely from the houses of the wellborn and wealthy to the hovels of the wretched and poor. As many people as there were in London, so were there as many stories about the dimber-damber.
Ignoring the not-precisely-welcoming air of the three inhabitants of the room, the dimber-damber commandeered Jane's chair, and seating himself, he remarked idly, “Expecting someone else, my dear children?”
Ben hunched a shoulder and reseated himself at the table. “It's a dangerous world we live in—how could we know it was only you?”
“Only me! You know, I almost think that I am insulted,” the dimber-damber remarked cuttingly as he ran his fingers up and down the long, black cane.
Used to his acerbic manner, the Fowlers were not dismayed by his words; Jacko and Pip slowly seated themselves, side by side, at the table.
There was an awkward silence as the dimber-damber's black eye slowly traveled over the three young faces. “Hmm. I can see that Jacko has told you about my plans for you all,” the dimber-damber finally remarked. “And I can see for myself that you are as enthusiastic as your brother.”
Ben sent him a sullen look. “Don't tell me you expected us to be
pleased?”
he said sarcastically.
The dimber-damber frowned at Ben's tone of voice and said icily, “It really doesn't matter to me whether you are pleased or not! What matters is that you do as I say! Is that understood?”
Three heads nodded resentfully, and the one-eyed man smiled nastily. “Well, I'm glad that we understand each other.” His one eye moved to Pip's face and wandered over her features. An odd note in his voice, he murmured, “Of course, there is perhaps another way that you could satisfy me... .”
Everyone knew exactly what he was referring to, and Pip felt her heart skip a beat in her breast. She had known this might happen, but she had not expected it to occur this soon. Her face white, she lifted her chin proudly, and coolly met the stare of that one black eye, silently daring him to make his despicable proposal plain. “I think not!” Jacko growled. “We'll hang first!”
“You probably will,” the dimber-damber replied in a bored tone, and then, as if losing interest in that particular subject, went on, “And since you're not of mind to accommodate me, I suppose we'll have to talk about today's plan.”
“What about it?” Jacko asked a little uneasily. “I thought it was all settled.”
“Hmm, yes, I suppose you did, my dear boy, but there is one little thing that I want you to do for me. There will be several members of the ton attending the match, and it should prove to be a rich day for us, but there is one gentleman in particular that I want to make certain you rob.”
“Why?” Pip asked, astonished. This was a most unusual request, unless it was well-known that the singled-out individual was carrying something of great worth on his person.
The dimber-damber smiled coldly. “Let us just say that the gentleman has annoyed me by winning a horse race in which I had wagered against him. As you well know, I dislike losing excessively, and I wish to create a bit of discomfort for him.”
It didn't matter to the Fowlers who they robbed or why, and so, after shrugging their shoulders, it was Jacko who asked, “Who is it? How shall we know him?”
“The gentleman's name is Royce Manchester. He is a wealthy American and you will be able to identify him both by his accent, which is quite pronounced, and also by his size and coloring. He is a tall man, well over six feet, and quite strongly built. His hair is almost fair, not brown, not blond. He will be accompanied, no doubt, by his cousin, Zachary Seymour, a youth of about twenty, who is just slightly taller than Manchester. Seymour has black hair.” The dimber-damber stopped speaking and cast them a sardonic glance. “Knowing your expertise, I have complete trust that you will find Manchester for me and lift anything of value he may have on him.”
“And that will satisfy you?” Pip asked dryly.
The dimber-damber fixed her with a hard stare. “No, my dear, it will not—but it will afford me a little amusement until something else catches my attention... .”
Pip looked away, her mouth dry. She'd rob the King himself if it meant escaping from the dimber-damber's bed, and as for robbing Royce Manchester, what did she care? One plumb pigeon was the same as another as far as she was concerned.
C
HAPTER
3
S
killfully driving his pair of chestnut geldings through the thronged streets of London, Royce Manchester was struck by a sudden longing for the peace and tranquillity of a backcountry lane—Lord knew that only madmen deliberately subjected themselves to this type of punishment. Having narrowly escaped a collision with a speeding mail coach and a farm wagon filled with vegetables, it was with relief that Royce guided his pair down St. Martin's Street.
It soon became apparent from the many horses and vehicles which lined the cobblestone street that the fight was going to be well attended, and after securing the dubious services of one of the several street urchins who vociferously promised to watch the horses and gig for him, Royce strolled with Zachary in the direction of Fives Court. Nodding to several acquaintances, they slowly made their way through the boisterous crowd to join a group of friends gathered near one corner of the ring where the fight would take place.
“Oh, I say! It's about time you arrived—the match is about to begin,” exclaimed George Ponteby, the nondescript features above his intricately tied and starched white cravat slightly flushed with excitement. Though Ponteby was distantly related to Royce, there was little resemblance between them. George was just about medium height, rather slender in build, and while his face was considered handsome enough, there was nothing particularly remarkable or memorable about him. Yet Ponteby was extremely well liked, his easygoing nature and amiable personality making him a welcome addition to any gathering. Being a member of a reputable family as well as having his own respectable fortune gave Ponteby entrée anywhere.
Royce greeted him affably and was instantly absorbed into the group of fashionably attired gentlemen. Zachary hung about for a few moments, speaking politely to several of Royce's friends before spotting a few cronies of his own. Taking leave of the older group, Zachary quickly made his way through the restlessly surging crowd to join his friends.
The fight area was outside, and the cobblestone street around the ring was thronged with people from all walks of life. There were, to be sure, members of the ton, like Ponteby and Royce, attending, but there were also a number of lesser folk, businessmen, bankers, and merchants, as well as street vendors, butchers, and fishmongers ... and thieves and pickpockets. The group was predominantly male, although a few tawdry-dressed streetwalkers in stained silks of scarlet and purple flittered hopefully throughout the multitude. Dogs and young boys ran excitedly in and out of the crowd, and snatches of laughter and conversation floated in the warm June air.
From the sidelines, where she leaned idly against the wall of a brick building, Pip watched the comings and goings, keeping an eye out for the tall American whom she was to rob. She spotted Royce and Zachary the instant they appeared, their height making them immediately noticeable. Squashing a particularly insistent flea between her dirty nails, she pushed herself away from the wall and unobtrusively tagged after the pair. While she was fairly certain that the tall, broad-shouldered gentleman in the expertly cut tobacco brown jacket was her prey, experience had taught her not to make assumptions, and so she sidled nearer, waiting for the gentleman in the curly-brimmed beaver hat to speak. Hearing the easy drawl when he spoke to his acquaintances clinched it for her and she glanced around, looking for either Ben or Jacko to let them know that she had marked the swell. Her diminutive height made it nearly impossible for her to find either one of her brothers in the constantly shifting mass, and eventually she was forced to leave Royce's vicinity and go in search of them.
Fortunately, she did not have to go far, and she had just reached the fringe of the crowd when she spotted Ben at his post on the other side of the street. Putting two fingers in her mouth, she gave an earsplitting whistle that was instantly recognizable to Ben. He glanced up, and when his eyes lighted on her, Pip sent him a wide grin and jerked her head toward the ring.
Correctly interpreting her signal, Ben idly moved away from his position and wandered off to find Jacko to let him know that all was well—so far. Now that their prey had been found, they could go about their business of working the crowd. Passing a plump banker who had unwisely worn a tempting watch on a gold chain, Ben deftly lifted it from the unsuspecting man and continued on his way.
Pip, too, was busy as she slowly worked her way back to Royce's proximity. The press and jostle of the crowd made her task easy, and by the time she found Royce again, she had managed to steal two very fine silk handkerchiefs, a silver snuffbox, and a jeweled stickpin. Her small size made her efforts ludicrously easy, few people paying any attention to the grubby little street urchin garbed in a shabby, ill-fitting green jacket and worn gray pantaloons. The small black cloth cap with its concealing visor was pulled low, almost onto the bridge of her nose, and it effectively hid most of her face, but allowed her to scan the crowd unobtrusively.
Since Pip was the smallest of the Fowlers, able to move with eel-like ease through the milling throng, and the one with the cleverest fingers, it had been decided among them that she would be the one to rob Manchester. Having positioned herself near the tall American, she watched him for several moments, sizing him up and making a mental inventory of his belongings, selecting which objects would be the most expensive and easily stolen.
If Royce noticed the small, poorly dressed figure lurking near his particular group, he gave no sign. In fact, Royce was too busy watching Zachary and Julian Devlin stiffly greeting each other to pay any attention to the little fellow in the green jacket.
Julian Devlin was nearly as tall as Zachary, with black hair and the well-known striking brows and gray eyes of all the Devlins. He was, at just twenty-two, whipcord-lean and arrogantly handsome. An utterly charming young rogue, he carried himself proudly, as befitted the heir and only child of the Earl of St. Audries.
Royce found it extremely enlightening that neither Julian nor Zachary had attempted to make the many friends they had in common choose between them. And while it was obvious that there was some constraint between the two young men, Royce was rather pleased at the way they each attempted to act with civility around the other.
As he was about to turn away, Royce's attention was caught by the sudden scowl that lit young Devlin's chiseled features, and looking to see what had caused such displeasure, he was not exactly surprised to see the Earl himself and a coterie of friends leisurely making their way through the crowd, stopping to greet this one and that as they edged nearer the ring. So the gossip is true, Royce thought. The Earl and his son
are
estranged. At least it shows the boy has excellent taste, Royce reflected grimly as he recognized several of the men in the group around the Earl.
Stephen Devlin, the Earl of St. Audries, for reasons not exactly clear, was not universally liked by the various members of the ton. There was certainly no fault to be found with either his elegantly handsome features or his polished manners. Because of his birth and breeding, as well as the fortune he had inherited from his sister-in-law upon her tragic death nearly twenty years ago, he had entrée everywhere, but this did not insure that he was equally respected and esteemed. For the most part, he and his wife, Lucinda, were merely tolerated by the leaders of society, the gossips whispering that they were a little too proud of themselves, a bit too smugly delighted with their unexpected ascension to the title and wealth. Consequently the people who did find their company enjoyable were not of the highest standing. And that definitely applies to those two fellows, Royce decided caustically as his gaze fell upon Martin Wetherly and Rufe Stafford, who were part of the circle around the Earl.
The two men who had found such disfavor with Royce were both gentlemen from the country who had managed to secure respectable fortunes. As with the Earl, there was no obvious reason for them to be held in contempt, and yet there was something about the pair of them that made them not exactly welcome additions to the homes and soirees of the more discerning members of London society. Like the Earl, they could not claim admittance to the inner ranks of the arbitrators of fashion, and unlike the Earl, they had no claim to the nobility and thus were treated with even less tolerance than was shown Lord Devlin and his wife.
Feeling as he did about Lord Devlin, Royce found nothing strange in the fact that the Earl's two boon companions were a pair of obvious toadeaters with a particularly grating unctuous manner about them. Watching as they fawned all over the Earl, Royce curled his fine lips in disdain.
“A bit too conspicuous in their eagerness to please m'lord, aren't they?” inquired a smooth voice to Royce's left.
Turning slightly, Royce met the cynical gaze of Allan Newell, an elegantly attired gentleman who did his tailor proud. His coat of blue superfine fit superbly across his shoulders, and his fawn breeches clung snugly to his muscled thighs. Somewhere between the age of forty-five and fifty, Newell was a familiar figure on the London scene. Not precisely a handsome man, yet one with a great deal of charm and presence, he was reputed to be quite wealthy, and though his family had no claim to either title or fame, most hostesses were not displeased to have his name on their invitation lists. Yet, like Wetherly and Stafford, Newell was considered not quite up to snuff by certain high sticklers. Though he was more eminently regarded than the others—not only because of his polished manners but also because his lack of social standing appeared not to bother him—there were certain doors that were closed to him also.
Since Allan was a sporting crony of George's, it was only natural that Royce should have met him, and while Royce could find nothing wrong with the man's behavior, there was something about him that Royce found faintly offensive. Newell seemed to take unnecessary pleasure in ridiculing the foibles of others, and there was a certain deliberate cruelty in some of his comments about the actions of members of the ton. Allan Newell was not someone Royce would have suspected George to befriend, but as it was not any of his business who George had as friends, Royce kept his feelings to himself and treated Newell politely.
Preferring to keep his opinion of the Earl's companions to himself, Royce merely shrugged at Newell's comment and, turning away, said to George, “I thought you said the match was about to begin.”
“Oh, it is! It is, my dear fellow. See, the bruisers are entering the ring now.”
And so it was; the two brawny men, stripped to their breeches, were indeed clambering into the roped-off ring. A murmur of excitement swept through the crowd as the two pugilists met in the center of the ring and curled their ham-like hands into rock-hard fists.
Pip had taken advantage of the crowd's focusing on the inhabitants in the ring to edge even nearer to Manchester, but the gentlemen who made up the circle around him were pressed too closely together for her to get into the position she needed in order to carry out her task. Frustrated and annoyed, she waited impatiently for a shift in the crowd, hoping she would be able to sidle right up to the tall American's side. Deciding that she could do nothing about robbing Manchester for a while, she let her gaze idly skim those nearby. Always looking for the unwary pigeon to pluck, she noticed a fashionably attired gentleman to her right whose attention was fixed intently on the two half-naked figures bobbing and weaving in the ring. A gold seal hung from one of his fobs, and almost effortlessly Pip's nimble fingers skillfully relieved him of the adornment. Rather pleased with herself, she carefully scanned the individuals in her area for another likely target.
In the press of the crowd, it was difficult to move about freely, and not seeing any other easy mark within her range, Pip sighed and tried to pretend that she was interested in the match. Her lack of inches made it rather difficult for her to see the ring clearly, and she spent several irritating moments dancing about on her toes, craning her neck, trying to pretend she was avidly interested in what held the other spectators spellbound. Conveniently, before she became too bored, there appeared unexpectedly, and to her delight, a little gap in the men around the American, and Pip wiggled instantly into the space. Unfortunately, though closer to her prey, she was still not in a position to lift any valuables from him, and she gloomily resigned herself to waiting until after the match, when the crowd began to disperse, before putting her clever fingers to work emptying Mr. Manchester's pockets. Whistling soundlessly, she fidgeted from foot to foot and gazed leisurely about her, wondering where Ben and Jacko were and if the match had proved as profitable for them. Sparring matches usually were, the shoving and pushing of the tightly packed crowd making their work easier. And the fact that everyone's attention was usually on the ring only aided them in their thievery. Except, Pip thought darkly, they're so bloody
boring!
Politely stifling a huge yawn of utter boredom, Royce began to glance around the crowd. Directly across from him, on the other side of the ring, he saw Zachary and his group of nattily dressed friends, their jubilant cheers when the big bruiser in the dark breeches landed a solid hit on the chin of the other pugilist making it evident on whom they had wagered
their
money.
His topaz gaze moving on, Royce happened to meet the unfriendly dark-eyed stare of Martin Wetherly, who was standing next to the Earl and his group near the edge of the ring. For a split second their eyes held, only cool disinterest evident in Royce's steady gaze, but inwardly he was wondering what he had done to arouse the hostility that Wetherly made no attempt to conceal. Was it simply because Wetherly was a close friend of the Earl's and he was merely reflecting the Earl's oft-professed dislike of him? Or was it something else?
BOOK: Whisper To Me of Love
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