Baleful Godmother Historical Romance Series Volume One

by Emily Larkin

  “Do you think . . . they’ve accepted a commission to kill you?”

  “It’s a possibility.” Marcus leaned back in his chair. “You see why I’m eager to find them, Miss Brown?”

  “Yes.” Her fingers twisted tightly together, the knuckles whitening. “Sir, you need to be extremely careful. If they’ve accepted a commission to kill you—” She leaned across the table, her voice urgent: “Sir, you mustn’t go anywhere alone!”

  “The Smiths are in no position to harm me. Mr. Albin saw to that.”

  “But whoever hired them will hire new men!”

  Probably. Tomorrow he’d have to start looking over his shoulder, but this evening he should be safe.

  Marcus glanced at the bed. Last night, when he’d suggested this meeting, he’d been thinking of sex. Tonight . . .

  He didn’t want to return to Grosvenor Square, to a house that was empty except for servants. He didn’t want to spend the evening thinking about his own mortality. A soft bed, a warm female body, sex—those were what he wanted.

  But not with Miss Brown.

  Tonight he wanted a woman who knew how to distract a man from his worries. A woman skilled in the art of giving pleasure.

  He reached for his hat.

  “You may stay if you wish.”

  Marcus looked at her. In the candlelight, Miss Brown wasn’t beautiful, but she was undeniably attractive—smooth skin, clear eyes, soft lips. Behind her, the bed offered its silent invitation.

  He could visit Madam Cecily’s establishment, drink too much expensive brandy, pay for the services of the most talented of her girls. Or he could remain here.

  Marcus turned his hat over in his hands, weighing up the options. Last night had been pleasurable, but an evening at Madam Cecily’s would be even more so. Miss Brown was clean, he could catch no diseases from her, but she didn’t have the skills of Madam Cecily’s girls.

  “Why?” he asked.

  A blush mounted in her cheeks. “I thought . . . I thought it was why you asked to come tonight. But I perfectly understand if you don’t want to. I’m not . . .” She bit her lip, and then blurted, “You can do much better than me, sir.”

  It was what he’d been thinking, but he tried not to show it. “Would you like me to stay, Miss Brown?”

  Her blush became fiery. She lowered her gaze. “Last night was . . . nice.”

  Yes, last night had been surprisingly enjoyable.

  Marcus turned his hat over in his hands again. A professional, or Miss Brown? Or both, a voice whispered in his head. He could visit Madam Cecily’s afterwards.

  “Are you still, er . . . protected?”

  “There will be no child. I can promise you that, sir.”

  His gaze slid to the bed. Her body had welcomed him inside, last night. She’d been sleek and hot and deliciously tight. He’d climaxed hard inside her, harder than he had for a long time.

  “Very well. I’ll stay.”

  * * *

  There was a familiarity to it tonight. This was the third time he’d stripped in front of Miss Brown, the third time he’d undone the buttons of her gown. Her breasts were familiar in his hands, the scent and taste of her skin was familiar, the softness of her hair—and the heat and tightness of her was familiar, too.

  Marcus was less gentle than last night, more urgent. It wasn’t a conscious choice; his body dictated it, demanded it. Sex. Affirmation of life at its most basic. Miss Brown seemed to feel his urgency—and to match it. She shuddered to a climax seconds before he reached his own release.

  Marcus automatically gathered her in his arms afterwards. Was Albin prey to this elemental need to have sex after coming close to death? Was the lad even now in a brothel, losing his virginity?

  He smoothed a hand over Miss Brown’s hair, feeling an inexplicable tenderness towards her.

  He pressed his lips to her shoulder, her throat, her cheek, inhaling the scent of her skin. His mouth found hers. He hadn’t planned to kiss her properly, but it seemed natural—to tease her lips apart with his tongue, to gently explore her mouth.

  That she’d never kissed anyone was blatantly obvious. Her response was hesitant, clumsy. Their teeth bumped.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, flustered, embarrassed, trying to draw back.

  Marcus didn’t let her. He held her close and laughed softly against her mouth. “The only way to learn is through practice.” He kissed her again, lightly, gently.

  Miss Brown hesitated—and then shyly returned the kiss, tasting his lips, learning the shape of his mouth.

  Heat grew between them.

  This time their lovemaking wasn’t fast and urgent, but leisurely, intense. Marcus kissed her as he entered her, kissed her as he built a slow rhythm, kissed her as his arousal spiraled tighter. Long, exquisite minutes passed. Miss Brown climaxed, her sleek muscles clenching around his cock, and yet it wasn’t over, wasn’t over—

  If anything, his climax was more intense this time. It felt as if his heart stopped beating for an instant.

  Marcus floated slowly down to reality: a soft bed, Miss Brown warm beneath him, the bandage tight and uncomfortable around his throat.

  He gathered Miss Brown in his arms and held her while his heartbeat slowed and his skin cooled. Minutes passed. He didn’t want to withdraw from her body, didn’t want to climb out of the bed, didn’t want to dress and leave.

  Not Madam Cecily’s. Not tonight. Not after this.

  He stroked curling strands of hair back from Miss Brown’s face, bent his head and kissed her. Small, feather-light kisses. No urgency, just gentleness, tenderness.

  The way he’d kissed Lavinia after they’d made love.

  Marcus released Miss Brown abruptly and rolled away from her. He didn’t want tenderness. Tenderness was dangerous.

  He climbed off the bed and dressed silently. When he was fully clothed, he looked at Miss Brown.

  She had donned her chemise and stood barefooted beside the bed. Her hair was tousled, her lips rosy, her eyes dark.

  Arousal stirred in his groin.

  I want her again.

  Marcus turned away, picking up his hat and gloves. “May I see you tomorrow evening?” he asked, not looking at her, as if by not meeting her eyes he wouldn’t have to acknowledge how much he desired her.

  “If you wish.”

  He did. Very much.

  Chapter Thirty

  October 25th, 1805

  Grosvenor Square, London

  Charlotte was working on the Somerset ledger when Cosgrove entered the study. The earl walked across to her desk and stood staring down at her. He didn’t smile, didn’t offer a cheerful greeting. His gaze was cool and assessing.

  As if he doesn’t know whether he trusts Albin any longer.

  Charlotte swallowed. “Good morning, sir. How are you?”

  Cosgrove ignored the question. “Did you purchase new boots?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And a greatcoat?”

  She nodded.

  “Then come along, lad. Let’s be off.”

  Charlotte pushed back her chair. “Where to?”

  “Aldgate. To find the Smiths.”

  * * *

  The Pig and Whistle was empty of patrons so early in the morning. Mrs. Westrup was mopping the floor. She wheezed as she worked. Bedraggled blonde hair escaped from beneath her mob cap.

  “Good morning, madam,” Cosgrove said. “Can you tell me where I can find Abel and Jeremiah Smith?” A silver shilling gleamed between his fingers.

  Mrs. Westrup straightened. “They’s gone, sir. Them and Hector and Ned. Left Lunnon yesterday.”

  “What?” Cosgrove’s eyebrows drew together. “Nonsense.”

  “It’s true, sir! Cross me ’eart. All over Aldgate, it is, sir.”

  “What is?”

  “Well,” Mrs. Westrup said, leaning on the mop. “The way I ’eard it, they’d been in a fight. Jeremiah was in a terrible way, bleedin’ and groanin’, and Abel ’ad broke all ’is
ribs, but they wouldn’t stay more’n a minute at their lodgin’. They reckoned the devil hisself was after ’em. They was all for gettin’ out of Lunnon as fast as could be.”

  “Where did they go?”

  Mrs. Westrup shrugged. “Dunno.”

  “You said they took someone with them?”

  “Yes, sir. Hector and Ned.”

  “And who are they?”

  “Hector’s their cousin, sir. He broke ’is head in a fight a few weeks back and’s been laid up in bed ever since. And Ned’s ’is son.”

  “Skinny lad? Good runner?”

  Mrs. Westrup nodded. “That’s ’im.”

  Cosgrove handed her the shilling. “Would you be so good as to direct me to the Smiths’ lodgings?”

  Mrs. Westrup tucked the shilling into her bodice. “Abel and Jeremiah’s been rentin’ a room from ol’ Martha Hill.” She left her grimy mop and came out into the street to give directions to the coachman.

  * * *

  Mrs. Hill lived in Buckle Street, above a dealer in pickled tongues and oxtails. She looked as old as Methuselah, her skin folded into a thousand wrinkles, her mouth sunken and toothless. She confirmed what Mrs. Westrup had told them: the Smiths had left London, abandoning all but the most portable of their possessions.

  “Yesterday?” Cosgrove asked. “What time?”

  “On dusk, it were.”

  “Did they say where they were going?”

  Mrs. Hill shook her head. “Jus’ that they wanted to put as many miles between th’selves and Lunnon as they could. Right scared, they was.”

  “Did they leave by stagecoach?”

  Mrs. Hill shrugged. “I dunno, sir. They ’ad enough money. The last few weeks they’s been mighty flush in the pocket.”

  Cosgrove’s expression sharpened. “Did you ever hear them speak of their employer? Did they mention his name?”

  Mrs. Hill considered this question for a moment, her wrinkles deepening, her eyes almost lost in folds of skin. “They called ’im ’is nibs. Never ’eard no name other’n that.”

  “Did you ever see him? Did he come here?”

  “They allus met in the city.”

  “Do you know where?”

  Mrs. Hill shook her head.

  For a shilling, Mrs. Hill gave them access to the room Abel and Jeremiah had abandoned. It was furnished with a ramshackle collection of items: two mattresses, a lopsided table, chairs. Bloodstains made a pattern on the bare floorboards.

  The earl crouched and examined a pile of discarded clothing. “They may have left something behind, instructions from their employer, a note—”

  “They couldn’t read or write,” Charlotte said, and then realized her mistake: Christopher Albin shouldn’t know that. “At least . . . I wouldn’t think they could. Could they, Mrs. Hill?”

  “Eddication?” The old woman shook her head. “Ain’t none of us got that. What’d we want it for?”

  They searched, but found nothing to tell them where the Smiths had gone or who their employer had been. The earl swore under his breath, a muttered word Charlotte’s ears didn’t quite catch. “They have a cousin, I believe, Mrs. Hill. A man called Hector.”

  “Yes, sir, I knows ’im.”

  “Can you provide me with his address? Or the address of his son, Ned?”

  Charlotte bit her tongue. She knew where Ned Smith lived. She’d been there as a dog. Crutch Street. She looked down at the floor and rubbed a stain with the toe of her boot, while Mrs. Hill gave directions.

  * * *

  “Whitechapel?” Charlotte said, once they were in the carriage. “Is that wise, sir? You said yourself it’s not a safe place—”

  “Worried?” the earl said, his tone sharp, sarcastic. “You can always change into a bear if we’re threatened.”

  Charlotte flushed. She looked down at her hands.

  Cosgrove sighed. “I beg your pardon, lad. That was uncalled for.”

  She glanced up, shook her head.

  “We are this close—” Cosgrove showed her with thumb and forefinger. “This close.” Frustration was fierce in his voice. “We won’t find anything. I know that. They’re gone. But damn it, I’m going to follow this trail to its end!”

  He blew out a breath. With it, his anger seemed to deflate. He leaned back on the upholstered seat and grunted a laugh. “If I can without getting my throat cut again.” His smile was wry. “I count on you to protect me, lad.”

  Her heart clenched in her chest. With my life, sir.

  * * *

  Crutch Street was less frightening than it had been when she was a dog. It was still wretched and squalid and miserable, but no longer terrifying. The overflowing gutters, the dilapidated houses—those things were the same, but there were no knots of sullen, staring, dangerous men. The carriage lurched over potholes. Charlotte opened the window and peered out. The stench of the tanneries pushed into her mouth and nose. “I don’t see many people, sir.”

  “Still abed, probably. Sleeping off last night’s libations.”

  The carriage slowed. She heard the coachman ask a question, saw a barefooted boy point, saw a penny flipped down to the child. The carriage advanced three more houses and halted.

  A footman opened the carriage door.

  Cosgrove climbed down. “Which house, Howard?”

  “That one, sir.”

  Yes, the warped, unpainted door was familiar. Ned Smith’s scent had led her here four days ago. But even with her boots planted in filthy muck, it felt less dangerous than it had last time. Because I’m a man, not a dog. And because she wasn’t alone. Cosgrove, the footmen, the coachman—they made her feel safe.

  “Turn the carriage around,” Cosgrove ordered. “We’ll be as fast as we can.”

  * * *

  An elderly man answered their knock. His face was whiskered, grimy. The odor of Crutch Street clung to him—sewage and tanneries—as if he hadn’t washed in years.

  For half a crown, he showed them the room Hector Smith and his son had rented. He also offered his name—Pa Hitching—and a swig from his gin bottle, an invitation the earl politely declined.

  Hector and Ned Smith had lived in one room, filthy and dark, with broken floorboards. They’d abandoned their lodgings in haste. The bedding was turned back, as if someone had stepped out to use the outhouse and would be back any moment—except there was no outhouse here; a filthy bucket in the corner served that purpose.

  “Hec’s been laid up in bed with a broken ’ead,” Pa Hitching said, and took a long swig from his gin bottle, the Adam’s apple bobbing in his skinny throat.

  “A broken head? When did that happen?”

  “Couple o’ weeks back. Mebbe three. I misremember exactly.”

  Cosgrove nodded. He surveyed the room. “What happened yesterday, Mr. Hitching?”

  “Abel Smith come a runnin’. In a right state ’e were!” Pa Hitching cackled with laughter, showing brown stubs of teeth. “Said Satan hisself was after ’em all.”

  Cosgrove stirred a pile of discarded clothing with the toe of his boot. “I understand Hector and his son had been working for someone recently. Did either of them mention their employer’s name?”

  Pa Hitching squinted in an effort of memory, and shook his head. “Can’t say as ’ow they did.”

  “Did Abel say where they were going yesterday?”

  The old man shook his head again. “He jus’ said they ’ad to get out of Lunnon as fast as could be.”

  “Do you know how they intended leaving? Stagecoach? Hired coach?”

  Pa Hitching shrugged. “They left ’ere by ’ackney.”

  “Thank you.”

  They emerged to find a small crowd on the street. The mood—curiosity mingled with belligerence—made Charlotte’s skin prickle. This could turn ugly. The horses had sensed it. Their ears were back, the whites of their eyes showing.

  The glossy coach and liveried footmen looked unreal amid the squalor, as if a children’s storybook had opened and shaken Cend
rillon’s golden carriage from its pages.

  The coachman greeted them with relief. “Sir!”

  “Let’s go, Beaglehole. Drive slowly, mind! There are children about.”

  The carriage made its way back down Crutch Street, plowing through the potholes. Half a dozen ragged boys ran alongside, shouting shrilly, daring each other to touch the lacquered panels. Charlotte heard the slap of their hands on the door, heard the footmen shout, trying to scare them away from the scything wheels.

  She glanced at Cosgrove. His face was hard-angled, his mouth grim.

  He caught her glance. “No one should live like this.”

  “No, sir.”

  A stone hit the side of a carriage with a crack of sound like a gunshot. Charlotte flinched. Cosgrove’s expression became grimmer.

  They swung into Rosemary Lane. A second stone hit the carriage, a duller thud this time. The coach picked up pace. The shouting mob of boys fell behind.

  At the end of Rosemary Lane, the earl rapped on the roof. The carriage slowed. He lowered the window and leaned out. “Anyone hurt? The horses?”

  “Just the paintwork, sir.”

  The earl closed the window. He took off his hat and threw it on the seat. “Tell me, Albin . . . if you were born in Whitechapel, would you kill to leave it?”

  Charlotte opened her mouth to reply No, and then closed it again. “I don’t know, sir.”

  The earl touched his throat, where Jeremiah Smith had cut him. “I might.”

  Charlotte thought back to the dark, filthy room Hector and Ned had lived in, with its broken floorboards and foul air. The smell had been more than the tanneries, more than sewage. It had been the smell of poverty and violence and despair. A more wretched existence than any creature—man or beast—deserves.

  Charlotte frowned. She looked down at her lap, and plucked at one of the buttons on her new greatcoat. Where had she read that phrase recently? A more wretched existence than any creature deserves.