Baleful Godmother Historical Romance Series Volume One

by Emily Larkin

  “If they are interested, they may reach me at . . .” Charlotte hesitated. She didn’t want to give the Smiths her true address. “If they’d like to entrust their answer to you, I shall return tomorrow.”

  “As you like, sir.”

  “What’s your name, madam?”

  “Sally Westrup. Mrs. Sally Westrup.” She emphasized the Mrs. as if it gave her respectability.

  Charlotte bowed. “Thank you, Mrs. Westrup.”

  The woman’s cheeks flushed a gratified pink. “Thank you, sir.”

  * * *

  Charlotte sat on the squab seat of the hackney, almost bouncing like a child in her excitement. I did it! She had the men’s names: Abel and Jeremiah Smith.

  Alongside the excitement was a sense of pride, of achievement. She was growing into her role as a man, assertive and bold. Charlotte Appleby would never have dared venture into the Pig and Whistle by herself, but Christopher Albin had dared. Dared, and come away with valuable information.

  A bubble of glee expanded in her chest as she imagined Cosgrove’s reaction to her news—and then deflated. What exactly was she to tell him? She didn’t want to lie to the earl, but she could hardly tell the truth.

  She chewed on her lip as the hackney turned into High Holborn Street.

  I’ll tell him that I disobeyed him. That I went back to Whitechapel as Albin. That I asked questions that led me to Aldgate.

  He’d be furious with her. Livid. But she wasn’t afraid of Cosgrove’s anger. He wouldn’t slap her like Aunt Westcote. Wouldn’t scream at her or send her to bed without dinner.

  * * *

  Charlotte paid off the hackney in Duke Street. She strode across Grosvenor Square and climbed the steps to Cosgrove’s house two at a time, whistling under her breath.

  “Good afternoon.” She greeted the butler with a smile and took off her hat. “Is his lordship back yet?”

  Fellowes looked down his nose at her. “And who might you be, sir?”

  Charlotte stared at him blankly. “What?” And then she caught sight of herself in the pier mirror. Straight brown hair. Broad face.

  I’m not Christopher Albin!

  “I beg your pardon,” she stammered. “Wrong house!” She wrenched the door open and fled outside, cramming her hat on her head.

  Charlotte ran from the square, not halting until she was out of sight around a corner. Her heart hammered in her chest. How could she have forgotten she’d changed her appearance in Aldgate?

  She wished her hair and face back to Albin’s. Horror was cold on her skin, cold in her belly. It congealed in her lungs, making it difficult to inhale, difficult to exhale.

  Fool, to be so careless!

  Above the rooftops, dusk was falling, the color leaching from the sky. An icy wind blustered down the street. Charlotte hunched her shoulders and hugged her arms. She shrank from returning to Grosvenor Square. What if Fellowes noticed she wore the same clothes as the stranger who’d fled so precipitously? But she should be at her desk in Cosgrove’s study, making a start on the Somerset accounts.

  She shifted her weight from foot to foot, shivering. Cosgrove was likely still at Gentleman Jack’s. Wouldn’t a loyal secretary with exciting news to disclose follow him there?

  Charlotte hailed a hackney cab. “Gentleman Jackson’s, please.”

  * * *

  She had hoped for a long drive, for time to compose herself, but the hackney halted less than three minutes later.

  Charlotte scrambled out. “Where—?”

  The jarvey pointed across the street.

  “Thank you.”

  Charlotte paid the man, and crossed the street. She tugged at her neckcloth, swallowed the nervous lump in her throat, and knocked.

  After a moment, a bored servant opened the door. “We’re closed for the winter.”

  “I’m Lord Cosgrove’s secretary.”

  The servant shrugged and opened the door wider.

  “He’s here?”

  “Sparring with the Gentleman.”

  Charlotte stepped inside. “Uh, where . . . ?”

  She had a feeling the servant barely suppressed a yawn. He led her inside and gave a jerk of his thumb. “In there.”

  The door he’d indicated stood open. Charlotte heard the creak of floorboards, the scuff of feet, the puff of panted breaths.

  She hesitated, then trod towards the door. She took a deep breath—I’m excited, bursting with news—and stepped into the room and halted, staring.

  The two men sparring were stripped to the waist.

  Charlotte’s throat seemed to close, her lungs to drain of breath.

  The man Cosgrove was fighting had to be Gentleman Jack, England’s Champion, but she had no eyes for him. She was transfixed by sight of the earl.

  He looked nothing like Phillip Langford—doughy, soft, plump. He was Heracles, magnificent of body. She saw the strong shapes of his bones, saw the lines of tendon and sinew, saw the lean slabs of muscle.

  The men circled one another, moving lightly on their feet, punching with padded gloves. Cosgrove’s hair was damp. A sheen of perspiration gleamed on his skin.

  Neither man noticed her; their focus was wholly on each other.

  A line of dark hair arrowed down Cosgrove’s abdomen and disappeared into his breeches. The sight of it made her flush with embarrassment. It seemed such an intimate thing, so private—that line of hair disappearing from view.

  On the heels of embarrassment came a wave of longing, intense and painful. She wanted Cosgrove so much that it hurt.

  Sex, which had seemed so grotesque at Mrs. Henshaw’s, wouldn’t be repugnant with Cosgrove. It could only be exciting to explore that body. What would the texture of his skin be like beneath her fingers? Would that hair on his abdomen be soft or crisp and wiry?

  Longing clenched in her chest, as if someone had taken hold of her heart and squeezed it.

  She saw his muscles flex, saw the wings of his shoulder blades move beneath his skin, saw the corrugations of his ribs and the long line of vertebrae marching down his back.

  I want to touch him.

  No. It was more than mere want. It was craving, intense and uncontrollable.

  Charlotte discovered that her pego was pressed against her breeches, hot and hard and aching, poking up the fabric. I wish to have a soft pego, she said urgently in her head. Her pego subsided.

  Charlotte exhaled a shallow, horrified breath. What if Cosgrove had turned around and seen that?

  It was all very well for the earl to tell her that if she scratched the itch, it would go away; but she had no way of doing that. Not as Christopher Albin. Not with Lord Cosgrove.

  The idea crystallized between one heartbeat and the next. I can do it as me. As Charlotte.

  She didn’t see the blow that ended the contest. The earl stepped back with a laugh, clearly conceding defeat.

  A servant she hadn’t noticed came forward, unfastened Cosgrove’s padded gloves and handed him a towel, then turned to remove the Champion’s gloves. Cosgrove wiped his face. He turned and saw her. “Albin? What are you doing here?”

  Charlotte had to swallow twice before she found her voice. “I have some news, sir.”

  “News?” He strode across to her. “What about?”

  “The men from Tewkes Hollow.”

  Cosgrove’s gaze sharpened. “What about them?”

  Charlotte glanced behind him, to Gentleman Jack and the servant. “Should I tell you here, sir?”

  “Perhaps not.” Sweat trickled down his temple. He wiped it away. This close, she could see the pulse beating in the hollow of his throat. The impulse to reach out and touch it was so strong, so powerful, that her hands lifted a few inches.

  Charlotte gripped the lapels of her coat tightly. I wish to have a soft pego.

  Cosgrove turned towards the Champion. “Jackson,” he said. “This is the lad I was telling you about.” His hand closed on Charlotte’s shoulder, urging her forward.

  Charlotte walked i
nto the center of the room.

  Gentleman Jack looked her up and down. “Should strip well.” He was a plain man in his mid-thirties, thicker in the torso than the earl.

  Charlotte was acutely aware of Cosgrove’s hand on her shoulder. The fresh, masculine scent of his sweat had a visceral effect, making the longing squeeze more tightly in her chest, making her throat close.

  She wanted to turn her head and press her face to Cosgrove’s chest. Wanted to inhale his scent deeply. Taste his skin with her tongue.

  Heat gathered fiercely in her groin. I wish to have a soft pego.

  “He needs to learn to defend himself.”

  The Gentleman nodded. “I’ll give him some lessons. Starting next week?”

  “Much obliged to you, Jackson.” The earl released her shoulder.

  Charlotte swallowed, found her breath, bowed to Gentleman Jack. “Thank you, sir.”

  “I shan’t be long,” Cosgrove told her. He strode across to a door. It opened into a chamber outfitted as a dressing room.

  Charlotte walked the perimeter of the salon while she waited, but her attention wasn’t on the pictures hanging on the walls, the scales and weights, the wooden staves.

  Scratch the itch, Cosgrove had advised her.

  Dare I?

  She halted in front of a picture of a pugilist and stared at it unseeingly.

  Charlotte Appleby no longer existed. She had no reputation to uphold, no virtue to guard. If she were ruined, no one would know or care.

  Dare I?

  Cosgrove hadn’t shut the door to the dressing room. She slid her gaze sideways, watched him roughly towel his hair and face and torso dry.

  The intense, visceral craving gripped her again, squeezing her throat, making breathing difficult.

  Or perhaps the better question to ask was: Dare I not? Her lust for Cosgrove strengthened with each day that passed. If she was to continue as his secretary she had to conquer it. Had to.

  Cosgrove pulled on his shirt and buttoned his waistcoat. He took a minute in front of the mirror to tie his neckcloth, then raked his fingers through his hair, tidying it.

  Charlotte stared at him in helpless, aching longing. I shall go mad if I don’t touch him.

  And with that thought, the decision was made.

  Cosgrove shrugged into his tailcoat. “Let’s go, lad,” he said, emerging into the main salon.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Darkness had fallen. The wind gusting along Old Bond Street had a damp, icy edge to it, as if sleet would soon follow. Marcus lengthened his stride, impatient to get back to Grosvenor Square. What news? What news? The question rang in his head with each step.

  He strode faster. Berkeley Square. Mount Street. Charles Street. Albin was almost trotting to keep up. Mews opened like the mouths of caverns on either side of the street. Ahead, the lights of Grosvenor Square beckoned. What news? What—

  A dark shape lunged at him, grabbed him, slammed him to the ground. The impact forced all the breath from his lungs.

  “Sir!” Albin cried.

  Instinct took over. Marcus snarled and kicked and fought to free himself from his attacker’s grip, fought to breathe.

  He was aware of movement in the darkness—a second assailant. Something whistled in the air and struck the cobblestones alongside him with a loud thwack.

  He heard Albin yelling, heard the whistling sound again. Something smashed into the cobblestones a second time. Chips of stone flew up, stinging his face.

  The ability to breathe returned. Marcus’s lungs filled. His attacker’s smell—sour sweat, ale—brought a rush of memory: St. James’s Park.

  A shout bellowed from his throat. Marcus broke free and surged to his feet, grabbing his assailant. By God, you’re not going to get away this time. They swayed, wrestling, grunting.

  Yells and running feet echoed in the mews. Bobbing lantern light splashed over them.

  His attacker wrenched free and shoved him. Marcus lost his balance—a fraction of a second only, but it was enough. He fell to one knee. By the time he pushed upright, the man was gone.

  Lantern light fell on two grappling figures—Albin and the second assailant. Marcus grabbed the man’s arm, swinging him towards the light. An object rolled beneath his feet and he lost his balance for a second time, falling backwards, sprawling on the cobblestones.

  A groom and a coachman in livery ran up, lanterns swinging in their hands.

  Marcus sat up. “God damn it.”

  Albin crouched at his side. “Are you hurt, sir?” The lad’s face was pale, his voice high with anxiety.

  “Only my pride, Albin. Only my pride.” He climbed to his feet.

  “You’re bleeding, sir.”

  “Am I?” Marcus put his hand to his brow, where something warm trickled. He turned to the coachman and groom. “Thank you. We’re much obliged to you.”

  “Footpads!” the coachman said. “Here, and at such an hour!”

  Marcus bent and picked up his hat. Something had flattened it.

  Albin bent, too. “They had a cudgel.” He held out a stout length of wood.

  Marcus dug in his pocket and gave the coachman and groom each a golden guinea. “Thank you for your intervention.”

  “What’s this city coming to?” he heard the coachman mutter as both men departed, leaving them in darkness.

  “They could have killed you, sir,” Albin said, worry trembling in his voice.

  “Nonsense.” Marcus pulled out his handkerchief and blotted the blood trickling on his brow.

  “It’s not nonsense, sir! They could have killed you!”

  “I’m not so easily killed,” Marcus said, but in his study five minutes later, with his flattened hat and the cudgel lying on his desk, he wasn’t quite so certain. If that blow had caught his head . . .

  “They weren’t footpads, were they, sir?”

  “I think they were two of the men from St. James’s Park.”

  “Waiting for you.”

  “I walk that route back from Jackson’s two or three times a week. Same time, same place.” Marcus picked up the cudgel, noting the gouges where it had struck the cobblestones. “Did you wrest this from him?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  Albin didn’t appear to hear the words. He leaned forward, his hands planted on the desk. “Sir, do you think it’s coincidence you were attacked the day after Mr. Langford wished you dead?”

  Marcus hefted the cudgel, feeling its weight, considering Albin’s question.

  “And do you think he needed money yesterday to pay whoever had burned down the conservatory?”

  Marcus frowned, placing the events in order in his mind: the arson, Phillip’s need for money, his refusal to give it to him, the attack. “It’s possible.”

  But did Phillip hate him enough to engineer his death?

  Of course not.

  Marcus gave himself a mental shake. “No one’s trying to kill me. Intimidation, that’s all it is.” He laid the cudgel down alongside his hat. “Now what’s your news?”

  “You need to have that cut dressed, sir.”

  Marcus sat on the corner of his desk, amused. “May I remind you, lad, that it’s I who give the orders, not you?”

  “But you’re hurt, sir.”

  “A scratch. Nothing more.” He pushed away from his desk, crossed to the decanters, and poured them both a brandy. “Now sit.” He pointed to an armchair. “Tell me.”

  Albin obediently sat. He clutched the brandy glass and took a deep breath. “This afternoon, after I’d taken my belongings to Chandlers Street . . .” He gulped a mouthful of brandy. “I was approached by a lady who said she had some information for you. The names of the men who burned down the conservatory.”

  Marcus lowered his glass. “What?”

  “She said she’d give you their names, sir. If you would meet with her face to face.”

  “Who is she?” Marcus demanded. “What’s her name?”

  Albin
shook her head. “She wouldn’t tell me, sir.”

  “What does she look like?”

  Albin hesitated, then shook his head again. “She was veiled, sir.”

  “Young, old—”

  “Young.”

  “What payment does she want? Did she say?”

  Albin gulped another mouthful of brandy. He choked, coughed, cleared his throat. “She didn’t say, sir.”

  “Where am I to speak with her? Here?”

  Albin shook his head. “She said . . . if you’re willing to meet her . . . she’ll inform me of the time and location.”

  “She won’t come here?”

  “No, sir.”

  Marcus picked up his brandy again. “If I’m willing? How will she know that?”

  “I’m to leave a message for her this evening, sir. At my lodgings.”

  “She’ll go to Chandlers Street, but she won’t come here?”

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  Marcus sipped his brandy, considering Albin’s news from all angles. “It’s a trap,” he said finally.

  Albin shook his head. “I don’t believe so, sir. She wishes to help you. Her sincerity was most evident.”

  Marcus frowned at him. “You believe her?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Marcus turned his brandy glass in his hand. Then he shrugged. “Very well. Tell her I’ll meet with her tonight.”

  “Tonight? But . . . but . . . but you’re hurt, sir! Wouldn’t tomorrow be—”

  “Restrain your nursemaiding tendencies, lad. I’m fine.” Marcus drained the brandy and stood. “And now you must excuse me.” He needed to wash away the sweat and blood.

  * * *

  Marcus came downstairs an hour later to find his study empty. He poured himself another glass of brandy and sat at his desk, turning the cudgel over in his hand. For the past six months he’d been trying to discover who was behind the vandalism—and in three days Albin had discovered three clues. The men in Tewkes Hollow. The trail leading to Cripple Lane. The mysterious veiled lady.

  Marcus laid the cudgel on his desk. He sipped the brandy. Anticipation hissed in his blood. The answers were almost within reach. Soon they’d be close enough to touch. He’d know who. He’d know why.