by Darcy Burke
The mention of William Cobbett sparked Jack’s concern. He peered across the table at Lady Viola. Cobbett published a radical-leaning newspaper that was popular with the working class and had felt the need to travel to America before he was arrested for sedition. Since he’d already spent time in prison for libel a few years back, he’d likely made a sensible decision.
Jack could only hope that Lady Viola also proved to be sensible. He’d have to make certain of it. She was right that there was no shortness of agitation right now, and it would be far too easy to find trouble.
Pennington leaned over the table and looked from Lady Viola to Jack, then back to Lady Viola again. When he spoke, it was in a low, furtive tone. “Just look at that march from Manchester. Workers are angry, and they want to be heard.”
“And yet we’ve taken away their ability to meet and organize a way to be heard,” Jack said sardonically, which earned him a sharp look from Pennington.
“Careful what you say, Barrett.” Pennington leaned back. “Not with me, of course,” he added jovially. “You may say what you like, and I shan’t repeat it.”
Jack swallowed an answering snort. The entire reason they were here tonight was to coax Pennington to spread gossip more than he already had. But he was right about one thing: Jack had to be careful what he said. He was far more radically minded than he let on, and sometimes he let on far too much.
“Sir Humphrey! Caldwell!”
Jack didn’t join his tablemates and everyone else in the main salon in welcoming the two newest arrivals. Instead, he busied himself pouring porter down his throat. Sir Humphrey and Caldwell were two of his chief opponents when it came to reforming Parliament. They represented boroughs that didn’t need representation—at least not at the current level. Why should Caldwell’s borough have two MPs for seven bloody voters when other boroughs had two MPs for thousands?
Naturally, Sir Humphrey and Caldwell sat down at their table. Jack stifled a groan and this time drained his tankard. Hell, he was supposed to be getting Pennington drunk, not himself.
When Mary brought ale for Sir Humphrey and Caldwell, he asked her to bring a round of brandy for everyone. His gaze met Lady Viola’s, and she nodded imperceptibly.
“That’s mighty generous of you, Barrett,” Pennington said.
“Seems like we might need it after today.”
Sir Humphrey lifted his mug. “I would agree with that, and I’ll add my thanks.”
Pennington frowned and shook his head. “We were just discussing the state of things. Such a mess right now.” He looked over at Lady Viola and put his hand on her shoulder. “Be glad you aren’t an MP.”
Jack froze as he stared at the man touching her. Would he realize? Beyond that concern, Jack had to suppress the urge to smack Pennington’s hand away for daring to touch her.
Lady Viola reached for her mug with the arm extending from the shoulder Pennington clasped, neatly evicting his grasp. “Exceedingly glad, thank you.”
Pennington winced, then looked over Sir Humphrey, Caldwell, and Jack. “I haven’t just reminded you that you’re on opposite sides of several issues, have I?”
“You have now,” Sir Humphrey cracked.
Jack lifted his empty mug in a silent toast but couldn’t drink. Thankfully, the brandy arrived. He was careful to take just a sip. He needed to focus on Pennington. He just wished Sir Humphrey and Caldwell hadn’t come.
Caldwell’s thin lips spread in a questionable smile. “Just because we don’t always agree doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy a drink at our favorite gathering place. Isn’t that right, Barrett?”
“Quite.”
“Still, you must admit Barrett has a point with regard to rotten boroughs,” Pennington continued, illustrating he was truly one of the most obtuse men in Parliament. While he wasn’t from a rotten borough, Sir Humphrey and Caldwell were.
“Let’s not discuss it.” Caldwell’s tone held a bit of an edge.
“You represent Gatton in Surrey, do you not?” Lady Viola asked. “And they have, what, seven voters in total?” She looked to Sir Humphrey. “And you represent Bramber in Sussex, with perhaps twenty voters?”
Sir Humphrey shifted uncomfortably, as he typically did when the subject arose. It clearly bothered him, but not enough to change anything. He was quite happy in his comfortable seat, which was handed to him at every election by the Marquess of Bramber.
Caldwell looked at her intently. “You aren’t writing about such matters, are you?”
Warning bells signaled in Jack’s mind. This was not a safe path of conversation.
“Just informing myself,” Lady Viola said with a tight smile. “I have no opinion on the subject. My job is to deliver information.”
Jack gave her a pointed stare. “Surely the readers of the Ladies’ Gazette have no interest in such things.”
“They do not appear to.”
Jack thought he heard the defeat in her voice. She wanted to write something important that people cared about—or what they should care about.
“Then perhaps we should turn the conversation to what they do care about,” Sir Humphrey offered with a grin before sipping his brandy. “What do the readers of the Ladies’ Gazette want to know?”
“They like to know what happens inside places like these. I shall report upon the drinks that were imbibed and the amusements that were enjoyed.” She looked at each of them in turn. “What do you do to amuse yourselves?”
Sir Humphrey gave his head a rueful shake. “Billiards. Can’t seem to get enough of it.”
“Then let’s go play,” Lady Viola suggested. She stood and picked up her mug.
Quickly finishing his brandy, his face pinching as he swallowed and set the empty glass on the table, Sir Humphrey rose with his ale. “Let’s.”
“I’ll come along.” Caldwell got to his feet and inclined his head at Jack as he picked up his beer and the brandy. “Barrett.”
“Caldwell,” Jack said, also inclining his head in the way that men did when they acknowledged an opponent.
As the trio set off, Lady Viola slid him a wide-eyed glance and inclined her head slightly toward Pennington. She seemed to be indicating she was giving him the opportunity to get the information they needed without Sir Humphrey and Caldwell about. She was, as he’d already assessed, quite clever.
Jack also noted that she’d left her brandy. Good, he’d make sure Pennington drank it. Over the next half hour, they spoke of horses and racing, their gazes drifting toward perhaps the best whip in the city, Giles Langford, seated on the other side of the salon. When Pennington finished his brandy, Jack suggested he take Tavistock’s.
“He might come back for it,” Pennington argued.
“Then I’ll buy him another. Drink it,” Jack urged with a chuckle.
“He’s an odd fellow, isn’t he?” Pennington mused as he lifted the glass for a sip. “I used to wonder where he was when he wasn’t here. I never saw him anywhere else until the other night at Brooks’s. Had no idea he was a member.”
“I think he’s a member at Boodle’s too,” Jack said vaguely. “I’m sure I’ve seen him there.”
He told the lie easily and would tell her about it. He would also tell her she needed to be careful. If someone as dim-witted as Pennington noticed her behavior, a sharper mind, such as Caldwell’s, would perhaps realize much more. If they took the time to think about it. Hopefully, they wouldn’t.
Jack began to see why she kept her visits infrequent—the old adage “out of sight, out of mind” seemed to fit her situation perfectly. He’d encourage her to adhere to that.
“Ah, I’ll have to keep an eye out. He’s a pleasant fellow, though he never did join me inside Brooks’s the other night.” Pennington frowned. “I thought we were going to have a drink.”
“That was my fault, I’m afraid.” Jack sipped his brandy. “We got to talking and then we left. Went to a gaming hell.” He’d no idea why he added that detail, but reasoned it could only help Lady V
iola’s act. “Sh—” Hell, he’d almost said she! “Should have told you, but forgot. He did mention later that he was supposed to talk with you, something about a rumor about an MP.”
Pennington nodded as he took another drink of brandy. “Ghastly rumor. I probably shouldn’t have repeated it.”
Jack swung his head and upper body toward Pennington. “What was it again?”
“Bah, I shouldn’t say. As I said, I probably shouldn’t have said anything in the first place.”
Jack wasn’t going to give up so easily. “I remember now, an MP actually helped the radicals with something. Which radicals, I wonder? The Spencean Philanthropists? The Hampdens?”
“That, I don’t know.”
“Ah, well, rumors do make things more interesting, don’t they?” Jack overrode his frustration with a forced laugh and tapped his brandy glass to Pennington’s. The other man obliged, lifting the glass that had been meant for Lady Viola and draining it.
Jack glanced about and lowered his voice. “Did you hear it here? Perhaps we should be careful what we say.”
“Not here, no. The Wicked Duke is safe territory for all!” Pennington shook his head vigorously. “No, I heard it at that coffeehouse on St. James’s. That’s the best place to hear rumors. If you want to, that isss.” Pennington had begun to slur.
Jack pounced. “Yes, it seems quite a few MPs like to frequent that establishment.” Jack had spent some time there in his younger days, when he’d been a barrister, before he’d become an MP, following in his father’s footsteps to the letter. “Did you hear this rumor from an MP, or was it one of the employees?”
“Neither.” Pennington waggled his brows, then leaned close, exhaling his brandy-ale breath over Jack’s face. “It was that solicitor who always sits at the corner table. Hodges.”
Triumph surged in Jack’s veins. He was more than familiar with Hodges; the man had once worked for Jack’s father. That had been decades ago, but he would know Jack, and there was no reason to expect he wouldn’t share the same information he’d given Pennington. Hopefully, he’d share even more. Jack just hoped he knew more. If he didn’t, perhaps he could point Jack and Lady Viola in the right direction.
Lady Viola. All this time, she’d been holding her own with the annoying Sir Humphrey and Caldwell. Jack leapt to his feet. “I’ve a sudden urge to play billiards as well.” He looked at Pennington in question but stopped short of inviting him.
Pennington waved his hand before letting it drop to the table, his palm loudly smacking the wood. “You go. I’ve a need for another ale, methinksss.”
He probably didn’t, but Jack wouldn’t stand in his way. He moved into the billiard room and saw that Lady Viola was watching him. Jack quickly made his way to her side and stopped dead.
One of her sideburns was barely hanging onto her face. He rushed forward and urgently whispered, “Your disguise is falling off.”
Her hand came up to her cheek, and she felt the problem. Her eyes widened, and she started toward the door to the private salon, leaving the billiard room without a word.
Jack followed her out at a sedate pace. Once he got to the private salon, he saw her heading through a back doorway. He continued after her, ending up in a small, poorly lit storage room.
She turned as he entered, her breath drawn in a sharp gasp. Then her shoulders dipped in relief as she recognized it was him. She pushed the hair onto her face. “It won’t stick.”
He stepped forward and surveyed the problem. “No, it doesn’t seem to want to.”
“I have glue in my pocket, but I don’t have a looking glass.”
“Can I help?” he offered.
She reached into the pocket of her coat and pulled out a small jar. Opening the lid, she showed him that a brush was attached to the underside. “Just use this to dab the glue on.” She set the lid back on and handed him the pot.
Jack took the brush and moved even closer. “Sorry,” he murmured. “The light isn’t very good in here. I’d hate to glue your mouth closed.”
“My brother would probably appreciate that. At least he would have when we were younger.” She laughed softly, completely abandoning the deeper tone of Tavistock’s vocalizations. Her laugh was warm and alluring.
They were nearly chest to chest. “Can you tip your head back slightly?” he asked.
She did as he asked, and the lone lantern hanging on the wall splashed its meager light across her cheekbones. He swiped the brush into the glue. “A sparing amount?”
She started to nod but seemed to think better of it given his ministrations. “Yes.”
He brushed the glue onto her face. “It’s a shame you cover yourself up with these. Does it hurt when you take them off?”
“Not really,” she said. “I’m quite used to it. Hold the hair in place for a moment so the glue will set.”
Replacing the brush into the jar, he gently pressed the faux hair against her skin. It was an intimate caress, or it would have been if she were bare faced. Her gaze locked with his as his fingertips applied pressure. He was aware of the warmth of her flesh and a hint of fragrance that had no business belonging to a man. He hoped no one ever got this close to her and recalled how she’d expertly removed Pennington’s hand earlier.
Jack’s changed his mind. This was intimate. And only growing more so the longer they looked at each other and the longer he touched her face. He’d never been more aware of her as a woman.
“I think it’s probably fine,” she said softly.
As he withdrew his hand, he was struck by an image of her without the facial hair. Her lips were full—the top pointed in the middle and the bottom thick and lush—and he saw himself kissing them…
Jack took a long step back and thrust the pot toward her. “Back to normal.”
Her hand closed around the jar, and he was careful not to touch her again lest the kissing idea take hold in his mind. She replaced the lid and stowed the glue away in her pocket. “You think this is normal? But you just said it’s a shame I wear them.”
“It is. I admit I much prefer you as Lady Viola, as you were last night. But this—Tavistock—is how I mostly know you.”
She glanced away, and he wished he hadn’t said all that. “Did you learn anything from Pennington?” Her gaze met his again, and anything that had sparked between them was gone, thank goodness.
He cleared his throat and shook out his shoulders, glad to be back on task. “Yes. Once I got him going on your brandy, he became rather loose-lipped. We need to see Mr. Hodges, a solicitor who sits at the corner table at the coffeehouse on St. James’s.”
Her eyes lit, and her mouth lifted. “Can you meet me there tomorrow?”
“I was going to suggest that very thing.”
“Oh, good, I’m glad you’re available. I’m not sure I would have had the patience to wait.”
He frowned. “I expect that you would, however. We have an agreement.”
She cocked her head to the side. “Are you still threatening to tell Val?”
“Maybe.” He wasn’t sure he would. He now felt a certain loyalty to her that he hadn’t a few days ago. “Mostly, we are in this together, and I should hope that you would not go on without me.”
She inclined her head. “I feel the same way. What time shall we meet?”
He mentally reviewed his appointments and meetings for the following day. “Two o’clock?”
“I’ll be there.”
He swept his gaze over her, trying to recall if she wore the same thing every time she assumed her masculine identity. “How many Tavistock costumes do you have?”
“Three. I just made a new waistcoat that I think is rather smart. You can tell me tomorrow if you agree.”
“You make your own waistcoats?”
She gave him a droll look. “You think I have a tailor?”
He laughed then. At the absurdity of such a thing. At the absurdity of it all. “I’m leaving now. Can I see you home again?”
“Are you s
ure you want to? People might think we’ve become close friends like Sir Humphrey and Caldwell.”
Jack shuddered. “Never say that. I should be horrified to be like either of them.”
“You really don’t care for them, do you?”
“They’re part of the problem we have in this country right now. They’re self-serving and corrupt. They don’t give a fig about the Blanketeers who marched from Manchester or the thousands of other people who don’t feel as if their government represents them.” He realized his voice had risen.
Her lips curved into a soft, very feminine smile. “You are a true radical. Perhaps you should have accompanied Cobbett to America.”
“Not a chance. I’m needed here.”
“Yes, I daresay you are,” she murmured. “Let us depart.” She moved past him out of the storage room.
As he followed her, he hoped they would learn what they needed to at the coffeehouse tomorrow. The sooner he stopped spending time with the tempting Lady Viola, the better.
Chapter 5
Despite the new waistcoat, Viola resented her costume today. While she typically enjoyed the freedom masquerading as a man allowed her, today she found she was eager to be a woman. Not that she could be in this coffeehouse.
Stepping inside, she took in the counter on the opposite side of the large room, where a man brewed coffee. Tables with benches stood in lines, while other tables and benches were set against the walls with drapes between them to allow for privacy. At least she assumed that was the purpose of the drapes.
She was a few minutes early and didn’t yet see Mr. Barrett. Her pulse quickened at the prospect of seeing him again. Was that why she wished she was dressed as a woman? He’d commented on liking it last night, and today she found she loathed the feel of the whiskers on her face. She couldn’t help thinking how nice it might be if he flirted with her.
But would it be? She was being silly. And shortsighted. Her focus needed to be on uncovering this story, not on the devilishly handsome Jack Barrett.
Only he was more than handsome. He lived a life of purpose and seemed to genuinely care about those who were struggling. That was far more attractive to her than his looks. And that made him dangerous.