by Julia Kelly
Tears began to run down his face. “I’m sorry, Livy. I’m a rotter. An eedjit.”
“How much was it this time, Caleb?” she asked quietly.
He was tugging at the edge of his coat, avoiding looking directly at her. “Five hundred.”
She sucked in a breath. “How did the club let it get that high?”
“Wasn’t playing at my club,” he mumbled.
“Where were you playing?” When he didn’t answer, she tried again. “Where?”
“It was a private game we’ve had going for a few months now.”
Damn you, Caleb. They’d been here before too many times.
“And they hit you because you couldn’t pay?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer.
“Yes. But maybe ladies like a nose with character.”
The half-hearted attempt at a joke fell flat.
“How much do you owe them?” she asked.
He screwed up his face, thinking very hard about the question. “For tonight?”
“For everything.” She knew enough by now to ask that.
“Close to two thousand pounds.”
Lavinia stumbled back, the lip of the sink cold against her back. It was an astronomical sum, and there was no chance her brother would ever be able to pay it on a solicitor’s salary.
His head fell into his hands and he moaned into his fingers. “I can’t pay. I’m going to throw myself in the Firth of Forth.”
“No, you won’t,” she said firmly.
“But, Livy—”
“I’ll pay it.” Just as she’d always paid Caleb’s debts.
When she’d first arrived in Edinburgh, she’d found him playing the wealthy student, awash in new clothes and fine wine, with nary a care in the world. That was how his group of friends at university lived, but she knew he couldn’t possibly keep up. The reckoning had come a few months later when he’d come to her door sheepishly asking for ten pounds to help him pay a bet he’d placed on a horse.
Over the years there had been more sheepish nights with twenty, fifty pounds doled out disapprovingly, but a year ago he’d come to her asking for five hundred pounds and she’d nearly refused to pay. Caleb hadn’t given her one moment’s peace, begging, pleading, and threatening with the desperation of a cornered man. Finally she’d cracked and given him the money out of her safe because he was her brother. He was all she had left in the world.
But two thousand pounds . . .
“Do you even have two thousand pounds?” he asked without malice but with a tired awareness that cut through her.
“No, but the prince’s visit has been good for business.”
He squinted and then sat back, as though he’d decided to believe her words—true or not—because they were the ones he wanted to hear.
“I’m sorry, Livy.”
“Don’t be sorry. It never sticks,” she said briskly. There would be time to mull this over later. Her brother needed her now, and that meant sucking up her pride and asking for help from the one woman she knew had both the resources and desire to assist her. She’d call on Moira first thing the next day.
Lavinia pulled the boiling pot off the stove and poured it over the coffee grounds, straining the liquid through a fine cheesecloth mesh and into a mug.
“Ask your creditors for a month,” she said, handing Caleb the coffee.
He nodded weakly and sipped at the black coffee.
“You’ll need a good story to tell your employer about the wounds,” she said.
Another nod.
“And, Caleb?”
He looked up, his eyes filled with sadness. “What?”
“When I tell you this is the last time, this is the last time. Don’t test me, because you won’t like what you find.”
“I won’t,” he said, and the two of them settled into an uncomfortable silence at the kitchen table.
On Tuesdays Moira Sullivan liked to take a cup of tea in her morning room and go through the week’s scandal sheets. She scanned them along with the broadsheets every morning to keep abreast of what had happened at balls, exhibitions, and concerts in Edinburgh, London, and all across Britain, but on Tuesdays she wasn’t just reading. She was taking notes.
On the walnut table in front of her were stacked the twenty-six thin, red-leather-bound volumes that were among her most valuable possessions. Each was marked with a letter of the alphabet stamped in gold on its spine, and inside were all the things she knew about every member of Edinburgh’s elite as well as many members of the ton. These notebooks were one of the things that made her so good at the matchmaking trade, as well as the several other more clandestine services she provided on the side.
She selected “H” and flipped it open to note down that the Earl and Countess of Blakeney would be traveling with their married son and his wife, Viscount and Viscountess Hathaway, from their Cumbria estate to Edinburgh for the prince’s ball.
A clearing of the throat brought her attention to the door. Fergus, her butler, stood patiently waiting, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Yes, Fergus?”
“A Miss Gibson to see you, madam,” he said.
A smile tipped the edge of her lips. She liked Miss Gibson, who, despite possessing an atrocious dress sense, was a feisty, bright young lady. She’d come to Moira two years ago when she’d been just sixteen with a proposition: that they share information—Moira regarding her matchmaking and Miss Gibson regarding her work for the War Office. The girl hadn’t even tried to pretend that Moira didn’t already know that she was employed by the War Office, and Moira appreciated that matter-of-fact approach to business.
“Please show her to the drawing room,” she told Fergus as she began to clear up her books with a mind to lock them away in their drawer—the key to which always hung around her neck.
“I took the liberty of doing so already,” said Fergus. But instead of leaving, he cleared his throat. “There is a gentleman accompanying her.”
She paused. “That makes matters more interesting. What did he look like?”
“Like he’s spent altogether too much time outdoors,” said Fergus, sniffing.
She laughed at the butler’s snobbishness. “Thank you, Fergus. I will join them presently.”
When the notebooks were all locked away, she made her way out of the morning room, but before she could get far, the doorbell rang again. She heard the scrape of the locks being turned, and Lavinia’s voice drifted up to her.
“Is Mrs. Sullivan home? It’s a matter of great importance,” the dressmaker was saying.
“She’s currently with visitors.” Fergus’s voice was muffled by distance.
“I must see her. Please,” said Lavinia.
Moira popped her head over the banister. “Is everything all right, Lavinia?”
The woman looked up, distress clearly etched on her face. “It’s Caleb.”
Lavinia’s charming but wastrel brother. Moira knew that Caleb Malcolm had a reputation for being an easy mark whom a card shark could ply with drink while steadily bleeding him of money over the course of a night. And if her informants were right, which they usually were, he’d recently been seen at higher and higher stakes games. Private games where there were no club rules to maintain order and respectability.
“I have callers in the drawing room, but I imagine you’d like to keep this a private affair,” said Moira.
Lavinia bit her lip and nodded.
“If you’ll wait in the morning room, I’ll be with you in a moment,” said Moira, knowing that Fergus would dutifully serve Lavinia a bracing cup of tea while she waited. Tea always went a long way to making things right.
When Moira stepped into the drawing room, she saw that Miss Gibson was accompanied by a man who had indeed spent many days outside, but he wasn’t the stranger Fergus had believed him to be. She’d met him in Lavinia’s shop just the day before.
“Miss Gibson, how kind of you to call. And you’ve brought a companion,” she said.
<
br /> “Mrs. Sullivan, may I present Captain Andrew Colter, formerly of the Endeavor?” Miss Gibson said.
He bowed respectfully, but for all his good manners, he carried himself like a man who knew to look for the exits. Another one of Miss Gibson’s spies.
“A pleasure, Captain Colter, but we’ve already met.”
“We have,” he said, his tone clipped. He was no longer the pleasant, easy man in the dressmaker’s shop, instead he examined her shrewdly with a pair of piercing blue eyes. He was something of a chameleon, she suspected, trained to slip into whatever situation he found himself in.
“How may I help you both today?” she asked.
Miss Gibson glanced at Captain Colter. “We’re attempting to recruit an asset who is somewhat resistant to the idea.”
“Is that so?” she asked, her interest piqued. Miss Gibson had never come to her for help with a reluctant recruit before. “What is it that you need this person to do?”
“Stop a plot to cause bodily harm to the Prince of Wales or members of the public who will be celebrating during his visit,” said Captain Colter.
She blinked. “He’s visiting for five days.”
“Yes,” said Captain Colter.
“And he arrives in just under three weeks,” she added.
“You can understand the need to move quickly,” said Miss Gibson.
“Do I know the person you’re trying to recruit?” she asked.
“Mrs. Parkem,” said Captain Colter.
Moira cocked her head to the side. “Is that right?”
“The target seems to have a fondness for her,” said Miss Gibson. “A Mr. Wark.”
Calling it a “fondness” was being kind. She’d seen the way Wark circled Lavinia like a shark.
“And she said no,” said Moira.
“Miss Gibson believes she could be persuaded,” said Captain Colter.
“And what do you think, sir?” she asked.
“That Mrs. Parkem wants nothing to do with the idea. She told me so yesterday.”
“Well.” Moira rang the little bell on the side table next to her sofa, “What better time than now to find out who is right?”
Lavinia wiped her damp palms on her skirts as she followed Moira’s stoic butler, wishing she could calm her nerves. She was a proud woman, and coming to her friend for help was a blow to her pride.
It’s not help for you. It’s help for Caleb.
The thought did little to calm her. The matchmaker had been her client since Lavinia’s first year in business. At some point, they’d transitioned into a pleasant friendship, but Lavinia was always aware that the lady had been her customer first. Despite what she’d told Caleb just the day before, she knew very well the difference in social class between the pair of them.
Fergus opened the drawing room door, but before Lavinia could cross the threshold, she froze. Andrew was there.
She balled up her fists, her short, blunt nails cutting painfully into her palms. The universe was cruel, playing a trick on her in retribution for what she’d done to him. There could be no other explanation for why the man was still here, standing in her friends’ home on the very day she’d learned her brother was in trouble.
She swallowed. “What is he doing here?”
“Lavinia,” said Moira in the sort of voice one might use when placating a frightened horse, “I’m glad you’re here.”
“And who is she?” Lavinia asked, giving up all pretense at manners and jutting her chin out in the direction of a small woman who was wearing an appalling shade of puce, made even more offensive by the three tiers of swag that climbed up her skirt.
“Captain Colter and Miss Gibson have come to me for help,” said Moira, her deep-brown eyes softening with sympathy. “They’d like to put forward the proposal that Captain Colter tried to speak to you about yesterday once again.”
Lavinia’s gaze darted from her friend to Andrew, to Miss Gibson, and back to Moira. “No.”
And without another word, she turned on her heel and walked out of the room as fast as she could.
“Lavinia!” Andrew shouted after her.
Hearing her name on his lips was a shot to her soul. Why couldn’t he understand that she didn’t want to see him? She didn’t want to hear his voice. She didn’t want to think about him any more than she wanted to desire him with the low, keening pull of remembered attraction in her belly every time she set eyes on him. She could make it through this life she’d chosen, but only if he wasn’t in it.
She was at the top of the stairs when Moira’s soft voice stopped her. “Lavinia, there’s no need to run.”
Her feet stopped moving and her arms went limp at her sides as she stared at the blooming-rose-and-vine pattern in Moira’s William Morris carpet.
“If I had known how seeing Captain Colter would disturb you, I would never have welcomed him into my home,” her friend continued, rounding her and placing a hand on her arm.
Instinctively, Lavinia leaned into Moira to soak up some of her comfort. “We were engaged to be married once,” she said softly.
Moira’s brows jumped. “Before Parkem?”
That, at least, was a small victory. It took a great deal to surprise the matchmaker, who always seemed to know everything about everyone.
“Long before. My parents didn’t approve of the match, but I couldn’t imagine myself with any other man. Then Andrew’s ship was reported lost at sea. We thought he was dead. For months my mother pushed me at Parkem. My father was sick at the time and made it clear that there wasn’t much to leave Caleb, let alone an annuity for Mamma and me.”
It wasn’t the entire truth, but she didn’t think she could stand to describe all of that now. Not while he was standing in the next room.
“Two days after I was married, Andrew returned. There had been no letter. No indication that he was still alive. He just walked up Main Street, hardly recognizable because he was burnt by the sun and his hair was so long he had to wear it pulled back in a queue.
“He tried to kiss me when he saw me with my shopping basket. But I was married, Moira. I’d just been married . . .” Her voice broke.
“I’m so sorry, my dear,” said her friend.
“When he found out I was Alistair’s wife, the things he said to me—and then the things I said to him—were awful.” Betrayed, he’d been ugly, but so had she. “I never thought we could hate each other, but I was wrong.”
“I didn’t realize,” said a voice behind them.
Lavinia looked over her shoulder and saw Miss Gibson standing in the doorway, one hand against the frame.
“I was assigned to support your operation if you went forward with it,” said Miss Gibson. “I’m sorry if this feels like an ambush or an exploitation of your past. It wasn’t my intention.”
“Nor mine,” said Moira.
“I just had hoped that we might convince you to help us,” said Miss Gibson, her steady gaze never leaving Lavinia’s. “I’m still hoping that, for you’re our best hope. We’ve reason to believe that Wark may be at the center of a very serious plot, but we have almost nothing to go on. We don’t know where the weapons found at his warehouse came from. We couldn’t decipher his note, and when we sent it on its way to be delivered to the railway hotel where it was addressed, it was never retrieved. We don’t know how he plans to deploy the weapons, except we suspect the prince’s visit is the perfect opportunity to strike, if that’s what he wishes to do. We’re grasping at nothing, desperate to stop a tragedy.”
Lavinia took a steadying breath. “And you really think I can help?”
“You have his mother’s ear because you’re her dressmaker. You can be closer to the family than any agent we could deploy would get in this short time.”
“And he’s been pursuing me for some time,” said Lavinia.
“I won’t lie that it would likely help,” said Miss Gibson.
“Men say and do stupid things to try to impress a pretty woman they have their eye on,” sai
d Moira.
“He’s a rotten blaggard of a man,” said Lavinia with a shudder.
“And we need to find out what he’s up to,” said Miss Gibson. “It could be a matter of great national importance. In the past, we’ve uncovered plots to move in munitions to arm an anarchist uprising. There’s the constant threat of bombings, and assassination attempts on the royal family are not without precedent.”
“Yes, people do seem to shoot at the queen rather a lot,” she murmured. “You speak of threats and plots, but it all sounds like speculation. You don’t yet know what you’re fighting, do you?”
“No.” A light sparked in Miss Gibson’s eyes. “But wouldn’t it be something to be the woman who figured it out and brought a man like Wark to his knees?”
The young lady’s hard determination and enthusiasm were infectious. Yes. Yes, it would be something else to fell a man like Wark who had harassed her for years. Wealthy and well-connected, he was a bore who expected everyone to bend to his will. That no doubt was why he was still doggedly pursuing Lavinia even after all the times she’d said no. She was a prize, and Andrew and Miss Gibson wanted to let him win her.
“I know you share a past, but I can assure you that Andrew has one of the most distinguished records in the War Office. He knows that the job comes first, and protecting and helping you will be the job. He wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize that,” said Miss Gibson.
“She’s right,” said Andrew, stepping out from behind the door. “If I’m your handler, you’re my asset.”
She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry at the realization that she was actually considering this. “I don’t know the first thing about this sort of subterfuge.”
“I’ll instruct you,” said Andrew. “We’ll set up a system so that we can keep in communication. We’ll find a way to meet, and you can tell me what you’ve learned.”
“How?” she asked.
“You’re fond of walking in Princes Street Gardens on Wednesdays,” he said. When she started, his gaze slid over at Miss Gibson. “I’m learning that Gillie is remarkable at surveillance and information gathering, despite her taste in dresses.”