by Deb Marlowe
--from the Journal of the Infamous Miss Hestia Wright
* * *
Stoneacre arrived at the Prince Regent’s residence and entered through a private door. Making his way through the maze of servant’s corridors, he arrived outside the receiving rooms, where the Regent’s secretary informed him that Hestia Wright’s audience was already under way. With a nod, the earl slipped to a small room nearby, took a seat and slid a hidden panel to one side. Leaning in, he listened intently.
He bit back a grin. Hestia was giving as good as she got. But the interview ended rather abruptly and he had to hurry to extract himself—before the Regent could realize he was there, and call for him—and before she could get away.
She moved fast and he burst out onto the street just in time to catch a glimpse of her retreating back. Unexpected pain stabbed him at the sight. Damnation. He admired this woman more than any other, yet she was always moving away from him. Even when she stood in place right before him.
She was angry. Even from here he could see she was all tight shoulders and stiff spine and purposeful steps. He’d expected that. The Regent might just be the only man alive who could dictate to Hestia Wright. Unfortunately, Stoneacre would likely bear the brunt of her resentment.
With a sigh, he set out after her and after a few minutes, he realized she was not heading for Craven Street and Half Moon House. He wasn’t sure she had any destination in mind at all. She headed for the crowds at Charing Cross, where she hailed a hack. He got one too, and followed as she rode over the Westminster Bridge and into Southwark. Let her have time to brood. After that interview, she deserved it.
The conditions they drove through deteriorated. If she paid attention, his presence behind her would rapidly become obvious. Eventually, they reached a neighborhood through which the hack would not travel. She climbed down and kept walking. Stoneacre did the same. He kept close enough to intervene, should occasion arise—but he should have known better. Hestia, dressed in an elegant gown fit for her royal audience, made her way into some of the most crowded, foul and dangerous neighborhoods in the city—and she was perfectly safe. Those few who did not recognize her on sight were pulled back from the folly of menacing her, with a quick grab and a shake of the head—and they thanked their friends for the intervention once they understood.
Hestia Wright was untouchable. She had friends, allies and devotees everywhere, from the lowest hovel to the highest courts, from the ballrooms of England to the royal courts of Europe. She had money, influence and power—and she used it to help those who needed it most.
She was as at home here as she was in Carlton House—and the squalor around them did not slow her step at all. Stepping nimbly, she dodged rats and feral dogs and street children gone nearly as wild. Once in a while an urchin would approach her and she would crouch to listen and exchange a few words. Once she stopped and spoke with a wan, tired woman standing in a doorway. Always, though, she moved on, moving adroitly around noxious puddles and sprawled drunkards, nodding to those brave enough to meet her eye.
Finally she stopped at a lane that ended at a rusty, iron fence. She stood, gazing out at the small plot of land beyond it for several long minutes.
Stoneacre watched her. He leaned against a dirty timber wall and did a bit of his own brooding. There was one place Hestia Wright wouldn’t be welcome—and that was his mother’s drawing room. There were plenty of people in Society who respected her and the incredible work she did, but the high sticklers would never accept a former courtesan into their ranks.
The hypocrisy of it sickened him. His parents of all people should know better than to hold past mistakes against anyone. But it didn’t stop them. Nor did their inevitable disapproval keep him from dreaming of Hestia Wright.
Honestly, it made no sense, neither the intensity with which he was drawn to her, nor the fact that his feelings thrived in the face of her indifference. Surely her polite detachment should wither his enthusiasm. But, no. Even facing away from him, her slim elegance and silent strength called to him.
Abruptly, he answered. Pushing away from the dirty wall, he approached her.
“I guessed it would be you,” she said without turning around. “When the Regent said he wanted me to work with an agent, I knew he meant you.”
“Yes. I suppose I should have known better.”
She glanced askance at him. “Better?”
“Better than to wish for a chance to work closely with you. Now the fates have answered with the one position sure to annoy you beyond redemption.”
She didn’t answer for a moment, then her mouth curved. “We’ll see.” Turning away, she contemplated the modestly marked burial plots beyond.
Stoneacre glanced at the small sign on the gate. “Cross Bones?”
“Indeed. Are you familiar with the Bishop of Winchester’s geese?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Well, there they lie.” She waved a hand. “For hundreds of years the Bishops collected rents from the many brothels they owned here in Southwark. They made fortunes from these prostitutes, but when the women died, they would not allow them burial in the churchyard. So they were laid to rest here, out of the way and in unconsecrated soil.”
His lips pressed together. “I wish I could say I am astounded by such hypocrisy.”
“I’m sure you see the like every day, working with the Prince Regent and so many high government officials.” She said it completely without irony. “We’ll encounter worse, trying to complete this mission.”
“I’ve no doubt about that.”
She raised a brow in question and he took a moment to drink her in. She had skin like moonlight on water, pale and alight with its own glow. Blue eyes, deeply colored and slightly slanted at the ends. So knowing—but how could they not be, when she’d seen so much of the world’s darkness and so many of mankind’s secret flaws? And yet, her eyes were not cynical. The tiny, upturned lines at the edges showed that she could still find laughter and ease—and he rejoiced and marveled at it.
“No doubt about either,” he answered her unspoken question. “I know we’ll encounter plenty of hypocrisy in this mission. And I know that we’ll finish Marstoke once and for all.”
Silence reigned for a few minutes.
“We haven’t seen much of you since the night we captured Marstoke in that basement.” It was not quite an accusation. “I was surprised to find you at the wedding last week.”
“Of course I attended. I was thrilled to be invited.”
“It was Francis’s doing. And Callie’s. They are fond of you.”
“As I am of them.” Was it a first strike? Her failure to mention any of her own feelings for him? She would find that he refused to war with her. Neither would he importune or push in where he was not wanted. He swallowed a sigh. Nothing about this was going to be easy. “Did you think I had given up after Marstoke’s escape from Newgate?” He shook his head. “On the contrary.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve been working my way through the piles of papers your Duchess of Aldmere found in Marstoke’s secret office.” Most of the documents. According to the duchess, formerly Miss Brynne Wilmott, a sack full of the most interesting evidence had disappeared that night, when the marquess had made his first move against the Prince Regent. Stoneacre had his suspicions about where it had gone.
Something darkened behind her eyes. “That cannot be pleasant.”
“No. I’ve been finding a path through the tangle of his polluted business dealings.” He shook his head. “So many accounts of blackmail and bribery, so much corruption. He’s built an empire on fear and hate, through cheating and outright theft. He uses multiple names and identities and nothing seems beneath him.” He couldn’t hold back the harshness that crept into his tone. “I have enjoyed the process of dismantling it all, brick by brick. Piece by piece. I’ve spoken to so many—his victims, those who stood against him, the subordinates who disappointed him. Broken men, all. And ever so slowly, I�
�ve begun cutting him off from his various streams of revenue. He may have escaped Newgate, but he should be finding it a different, smaller world.”
He glanced over and froze at what he saw, unguarded for just a moment, in her face.
Like the strike of a match out of the dark, she was lit with surprise and relief, with blazing approval and with . . . more. With something that looked both fervent and . . . breathless.
“I . . .” He couldn’t find words for a moment. She’d never shown more than a hint of emotion in his presence and now her expression blazed with a host of them and he could not turn away.
She blinked, summoning a shutter that slammed down over it all, and she turned away.
“I . . . There are so many of them, devastated by his cruelty,” he continued haltingly. “It makes me feel sure we will find someone willing to help us, to lead us to him.”
She looked out over the burial plots again, brow furrowed.
“Are any of your people in there?” he asked after a moment. “The women you tried to help?”
“No. I have my own place for them. Private. Quiet. Pretty.” She tilted her head and closed her eyes as if reaching for that image of peace.
Ah, hell. Her profile was perfection. Her mouth was sweet and wide and made for the press of a kiss. He wanted to touch her lips, trace them with his thumb and coax them open—just for him.
He imagined her reaction. No slow, swelling sweetness or soft, quick shivers of passion from this one. Not even a bite. He’d likely end up with a knife in his ribs.
He was in a world of trouble. This mission was going to be the death of him, one way or another.
“No.”
“No?” He hadn’t been fool enough to say any of that out loud, had he?
“We won’t find anyone willing to betray him. Marstoke chooses wisely and acts thoroughly. He never makes a move without guarantee of his victim’s full capitulation.” She breathed deeply. “But you’ve been blocking the flow of his funds?”
He nodded.
“I saw a few signs of it, in Kendal,” she mused. “When I went to the aid of the Prince Regent’s . . . of young Miss Smythe. There were too few men involved, considering that last gambit was a move against both the Regent and me. And Rhys reported a good bit of bickering among them. Not what I’m used to seeing amongst the marquess’s well-compensated and eager game players. Usually they act as disciplined and regular as a machine.”
“Yes. And I assume you’ve heard that more than a few recalcitrant second sons have found their way home over the last few weeks?” he asked. “When we raided the estate Marstoke been hiding in with his recruits, they had all gone. But it appears a few of them have quit Marstoke’s grand game and returned home.”
“I did hear. And a few of the names surprised me.” Her gaze unfocused a little. “There are always surprises with Marstoke, but I think it’s time we hit him with one of our own.”
He nodded grimly. “We are overdue.”
She gave him a crooked, conspiratorial smile that set his heartbeat to sputtering. “Not all of his business dealings are in his ledgers, Lord Stoneacre. Like the Bishops of Winchester past, the marquess makes a pretty sum off of many of the city’s prostitutes. If he’s short of funds, he’ll be looking to these hidden streams more heavily. And I know of a major source.”
“Oh? Where will we find such a place?”
“Meet me at Half Moon House tonight, after sunset, and I’ll show you. And wear black, please.” She turned her head toward the graveyard again. “But for now, if you will allow me to say my goodbyes, then perhaps we can walk back to a spot where we can find a hack?”
He nodded and walked away. Glancing back, he was arrested at the sight of her once more. Grace and beauty and steel and intelligence and kindness—all set against that sad backdrop. He sighed heavily and knew he’d carry that image away with him.
Later that evening, Hestia sat at her vanity table and carefully checked the lay of her false hair. She’d become a redhead tonight, which always made her feel a little bolder. A bit saucier, in general.
Perhaps not a wise choice.
Too late to worry over it now. She turned her head this way and that, but all sat tight and neat. She added the two clips that accessorized this particular outfit. The large one, long, heavy and elaborately carved, she anchored at the back of her elegant red chignon. The smaller, obviously paste and cheaply made, she tucked away beneath a swath of hair so that it could scarcely be seen.
From below echoed a chorus of laughter and mostly good-natured squabbling. Listening, she closed her eyes and dropped her head into her hands for a moment.
That sound was a balm to her soul. It meant safety and warmth and a hope for a better life—for at least the too-small number of girls she could fit within these walls.
At the same time, it made her restless, for there was still so much work to be done, so many other women who needed attention, opportunity or just someone to care.
Give it into someone else’s hands. The echo of it still infuriated her. What did the Prince Regent think she’d been doing? She’d been fighting Marstoke since she was fifteen years old and recruiting others—to help women like those who came to Half Moon House, as well as to help curb the wicked marquess—for nearly as long.
Now she had help—and an ultimatum. The thought of life without the worry of Marstoke hanging over her beckoned, a shining dream. And though she didn’t like how the Prince Regent gave orders without sharing likely vital information, she was grateful to have his men and resources behind her—if only they didn’t come with Stoneacre at the helm.
Stoneacre. He was going to be a distraction.
A big man, the earl was. Like a Viking, the girls downstairs would likely whisper—and they would be right. A man’s man, she would label him, tall and broad, but not bulky, with dark hair that somehow threw off light, like the shine in a raven’s wing. Dark eyes, almost black when he was displeased. A solid, strong blade of a nose and skin like a sailor’s—burnished by time spent in sun and wind so that it was another color altogether from most of the English peerage.
Different from them in other ways, too. The earl had made his interest plain, almost from the moment of their first meeting—much like a large percentage of the men she encountered. Unlike the others, however, he hadn’t acted as if his attentions were a favor to her. And he hadn’t pushed when she didn’t respond. No pouting, no annoyed disbelief, no angry attempts at domination. Instead, he’d stepped back when she let his interest pass unnoticed, although it was still there, apparent when they met, and it grew increasingly harder not to indulge her own . . . curiosity.
That’s all it was, surely. Clinical interest in a man who possessed both the looks and charisma of a predator, and the honor of a true gentleman. Not carnal temptation. Such things belonged in her past, burned out of her by hate and callous necessity. Never mind that his easy smile and open gaze stirred up—
She straightened abruptly as the door latch rattled and Isaac stepped in even as he knocked. He paused as he noticed her outfit.
“Oh. It’s to be a night like that, is it?” He started to back out. “Let me arrange to have another footman or two on duty tonight and I’ll be ready in a trice.”
“No. No need.” She beckoned him back. “I’ve arranged for another escort tonight.”
Isaac looked disgruntled. “Is that why Stoneacre just showed up downstairs?”
“It is.” She stood and fetched a gossamer shawl from a chair. “I need you to stay here tonight. Stay alert. And message all of our eyes in Town. If Marstoke is in London, then I want to know about it.”
“In Town?” Isaac looked startled. “With all the world still looking for him? Would he be so brazen?”
Hestia checked her reflection in the mirror. “The end grows near, old friend. The game is winding down. At this point, we need to assume that Marstoke is capable of anything.”
Isaac stilled for a moment, his bulk filling the doorway,
his eyes narrowed and focused. He would have been a warrior in an ancient time, proud and strong and willing to throw his heart into righteous battle. “I’ll start those messages. And I’ll call in a few extra guards to put into the rotation around here.” He set off for the servant’s stairs at the back of the house.
Hestia went on silent feet down the front stairs, her mind replaying the scene that so often came to her when Stoneacre’s name was mentioned.
It had happened the night that they’d captured Marstoke. She and Stoneacre and Callie and Tru had been riding high on triumph when Marstoke and his top couple of lackeys were hauled away from the damp cellar that night, but one of the Wicked Marquess’s lieutenants had thought to ease his own punishment by giving up some of his compatriots. Even before he’d been bundled into the back of a horse van, he’d told them of a handful of others, waiting for Marstoke nearby.
Stoneacre had gathered the soldiers he’d brought and they had all set out for the place. They’d split into two groups and Stoneacre had taken his men to the back, to flush the villains out. But the henchmen were desperate and turned as vicious as Marstoke himself. They fought back. Tru and his group of soldiers had rushed them. Two lackeys had fallen before the rest saw the wisdom of surrender.
Except for one. A dirty brute of a man, who rushed out of hiding. He’d lifted a pistol and pointed it at Tru. He couldn’t miss from that distance.
She stepped forward, opened her mouth to scream a warning. But Stoneacre came out of the darkness behind the thug. Large as he was, he reached right over the man’s shoulder, grabbed him by the wrist like a recalcitrant child and pulled up. The shot fired into the ceiling, perilously close to Stoneacre’s ear, but he just grinned and braced his feet apart and held the man slightly off the ground—and barely drew a deep breath doing it.