A Husband's Wicked Ways

by Jane Feather

  The groom released his hold on the bits and jumped up behind as the curricle headed for the big wooden doors that stood open onto the street. Greville nodded at the guardsmen on either side of the doors as they saluted him, then drove towards St. James’s Park. He crossed the park and turned onto St. James’s Street, heading for Piccadilly. Two men stood deep in conversation as he passed White’s club and he drew rein.

  “Good afternoon, Bonham, Petersham.” He greeted Harry and Nick Petersham.

  “Nice pair, Falconer,” Nick said approvingly, examining the horses through his quizzing glass. “They look familiar.”

  Greville laughed. “That’s because they are. They’re Eden’s breakdowns.”

  “Ah.” Nick nodded wisely. “I heard he was selling up. All to pieces I gather. Did you hear that, Harry?”

  “Aye,” Harry agreed. “Lost a fortune at hazard in Pickering Street…young fool.”

  “Well, if he will play in a hell, what can he expect,” Nick stated, then caught his friend’s astounded eye. Nick flushed a little. “All right, Harry, no need to look at me like that. I know I’ve played there m’self, once or twice.” He turned back to Greville. “You’re not one for the tables, are you, Falconer?”

  Greville shook his head. “Never seen the appeal, which is fortunate since I have little aptitude and less money to waste.”

  “And now you’re to be a married man,” Nick said with another sagacious nod. “Nothing like a wife to encourage a man to keep the purse strings tight.”

  “Which is presumably why you remain a bachelor,” Harry stated. “Are you going home, Falconer? Could you take me up?”

  “With pleasure,” Greville said with alacrity.

  Harry climbed into the curricle beside him. Nick Petersham waved them away and went up the steps to the hallowed portals of White’s.

  “Convenient that we’re such near neighbors now,” Harry remarked. “Nell and Aurelia will certainly find it so once the marriage has been solemnized.”

  Greville’s only response was a flickering smile and an accepting nod as he turned his horses into the cacophonous throng on Piccadilly, concentrating on weaving his way through the carriages, coaches, street barrows, and drays.

  “Have you and Aurelia set a date as yet?” Harry asked nonchalantly.

  “I await Aurelia’s word on that subject. It is customary, I believe, for the lady to set the date.”

  “Of course.” Harry hesitated, then decided to take the plunge. “You have said that you expect to work mostly in England now, but should that change, have you thought how to explain such an absence to Aurelia?”

  Greville gave him a sideways glance, then said in a tone that stated quite clearly that it was none of his passenger’s business, “Should that time come, I’ll deal with it.”

  “Of course. I’ll say no more, except that if I can be of service where Aurelia is concerned, Falconer, you have only to say. She does not lack for friends.”

  Greville cast him another sidelong look, his lips slightly pursed. So that was the reason behind this shared drive. He’d guessed it had to be something more than mere companionship and convenience. “I’ll bear it in mind, but I assure you, Bonham, you have no cause to worry about Aurelia. She’s my responsibility, and I don’t take such responsibilities lightly.”

  “No…no, of course not.” Harry made haste to deny any such implication. He turned the conversation to mundane matters until Greville drew rein outside Bonham’s house on Mount Street.

  “Thank you for the lift, Falconer,” Harry said, jumping down.

  “Anytime.” Greville raised a hand in salute and drove the few yards back to South Audley Street. Outside his house he handed the reins to his groom, with instruction to take the curricle back to the mews, and went into the house. The man who emerged from a side entrance half an hour later bore little or no resemblance to Colonel, Sir Greville Falconer.

  The man in a rough homespun jerkin, patched leather britches, his face obscured by a woolen hat pulled low over his eyes, seemed to slink up the street towards Grosvenor Square, hugging the shadows as if afraid of the light. Just before the square he turned right onto Adam’s Row.

  It was a street much like any other in this part of Mayfair. Elegantly fronted tall row houses, white steps, gleaming black iron railings. He strolled head down to the end of the street, glancing around every now and again as if on the watch for something. Few people were on the street, but those avoided him, even going so far as to cross the street at his approach. Everything about the man seemed to speak of a nefarious errand.

  The afternoon shadows lengthened and a chill breeze rattled the branches of the plane trees where the pale green of early spring was beginning to show. Outside number 14, Greville’s step slowed as he cast a seemingly swift glance at the house. In fact he had taken in everything of note. Casually he crossed the street and leaned against the railing of a house some way down the street that still had a clear view of number 14 across the road. He took a clay pipe from his back pocket and stuffed it with foul-smelling tobacco, struck a piece of flint against the iron railing, and lit the pipe. He puffed reflectively, a cloud of noxious smoke surrounding him, as he watched the house. He looked like any laborer having a well-earned smoke and a rest at the end of a day’s work.

  After half an hour his vigil was rewarded. The door opened and a man emerged, dressed impeccably in a fawn coat and cream pantaloons, his tasseled Hessians gleaming in the late-afternoon gloom. His complexion had an olive tinge to it and his neat spade beard was in the Spanish style. He held his cane under his arm as he drew on his gloves, standing on the top step of the house, glancing up and down the street. If he noticed the scruffy figure farther along on the opposite side of the street, he gave no indication. He took his cane from his armpit and set off down the street, swinging it lightly.

  Greville didn’t move, just watched closely. He could feel the fine hairs on his nape lifting with the conviction that he had seen the man before, somewhere, and in circumstances that were not at all pleasant. But he couldn’t chase down the elusive memory that was almost more of a feeling than a concrete recollection. It was something to do with the man’s posture, his walk, the set of his head. Where had he met Don Antonio Vasquez before?

  He was about to turn away when a movement at the side of the house caught his eye. Another man emerged. A short, stocky figure, dressed all in black, stepped into the street from the narrow passageway that separated this house from its neighbor. He had the appearance of a secretary of some kind, but Greville, watching closely, his eyes narrowed against the veil of smoke around him, knew the gait and the build of a fighter when he saw it.

  He extinguished his pipe with relief. Though a useful prop, he disliked it intensely. He returned it to his pocket, feeling the heat of the bowl against his thigh, and set off after the black-clad figure. He made sure the man knew he was being followed, pausing when his quarry paused, hurrying after him when he turned abruptly into George Yard. The man stopped in the deserted yard and turned around sharply. Greville glanced around. No one was around; it was a perfect place for a little daylight robbery.

  “Whatcha doin’ ’ere, guv?” he called out, stepping closer, feeling in his pocket for the short, weighted club he always carried in his present guise. “Lost yer way, ’ave yer?”

  His quarry stood foursquare, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet. “You’ll find me a hard man to rob, my friend.” His accent was heavy but his language fluent. His hands were balled into fists at his side as he waited for the would-be assailant to approach.

  Greville swung the weighted club with clear menace, staring at his quarry malevolently, as if of two minds whether to initiate his attack or turn tail. The Spaniard saw the hesitation and, as Greville had hoped he would, took advantage of it. He sprang forward, two rigid fingers outstretched towards Greville’s eyes. A street fighter, Greville thought grimly, one who knew all the dirtiest tricks.

  The man was light as air on h
is feet and covered the distance between them in two leaps. Greville sidestepped the jabbing fingers not an instant too soon and dropped into a defensive crouch, the club hanging loosely from his right hand. He circled his quarry and the Spaniard followed his movement, turning on the balls of his feet, his fingers still outstretched.

  He would have another weapon, Greville thought. This was no secretary. Knife or pistol? His gaze ran over the figure looking for a telltale bulge, anything that would tell him what to prepare for. He guessed it would be a knife. The man had the air of a knife fighter, a man who liked to get up close to his quarry, a man who liked to attack in silence.

  Greville saw the flash of silver and jumped sideways in almost the same moment. The Spaniard muttered an imprecation and spun around, the hilt of the stiletto blade between his fingers. Greville recognized his way of holding the blade, which was particular to a certain group of people, and he had heard and recognized the imprecation. He knew who and what he was dealing with now, and exactly how the man would attack.

  The Spaniard raised his knife hand, and in the instant before the knife flew towards him, Greville threw the weighted club. It hit the Spaniard square in the forehead. He teetered, his eyes glazing, and the knife fell to the cobbles, but amazingly he remained upright. Greville swooped low, picking up the club as he dodged behind the man. He brought the club down with cracking force across his skull, and slowly his opponent crumpled to the ground.

  Greville stood quite still for a second, catching his breath. The yard was still deserted, and now in near darkness. Little enough light penetrated at high noon, and it was now well past sunset. He bent to pick up the knife, turning it slowly in his hands, looking for the mark he was certain he would find. It was there, just inside the carved hilt. The insignia of the Inquisition.

  That put a different complexion altogether onto this enterprise. They would not send an agent of the Inquisition on a mission to set up an intelligence network. His usefulness lay in quite other arenas. So what was he here for?

  He bent down again and felt for the pulse in the man’s neck. It was faint but still there. It would take more than a blow on the head to finish one of the Inquisition’s own. He ran his hands through the man’s pockets. If this was to look like a robbery, he needed to steal something. He took the fob watch and a purse containing three silver sovereigns. Then he walked quickly out of the yard, leaving the scene of the crime behind. No one would think it had been anything but one of the many footpad attacks that plagued the alleys and dark corners of the city.

  He returned home and changed his clothes, resuming once again his customary persona. Then he went out again, hailed a cab to the ministry, and went directly to Simon Grant.

  “Back so soon, Greville?” The chief looked up in surprise from a pile of papers. “I could have sworn you were here not three hours past.”

  Greville acknowledged the witticism with a faint smile. “I wasn’t sure I’d still find you here at this hour, Simon.”

  “Oh, I live here.” Simon sighed and leaned back in his chair, linking his hands behind his head. “So, why the return visit?” His eyes, although tired, were shrewd.

  “An interesting encounter.” Greville swung a wooden chair around and straddled it, resting his folded arms along the back. “It would seem that the Inquisition has something to do with our Spanish friends’ arrival in this fair city.”

  Simon sat up abruptly, his hands falling to his desk. “How d’you know?”

  Grimly Greville related the events of the last hour. “We have to assume that there’s more to their enterprise than the simple establishment of a network. Why else bring the Inquisition?”

  “Troubling,” Simon said, pulling at his chin. “We might know more when we hear from our man in Madrid. In the meantime, we shall have to play a watch-and-wait game. Keep a close eye on them.” He regarded Greville thoughtfully. “How does this affect Lady Farnham’s involvement in this enterprise?”

  Greville frowned. “I’ve been thinking about that,” he said slowly. “I see no alternative to changing the plan. I’m not prepared to take any risks with her safety with the Inquisition around.”

  “No…no, I can see not. Well, do what you think best, Greville.”

  “I shall, have no fear, Simon.” Greville swung off the chair, shook hands, and left. He hailed another cab to take him to Cavendish Square.

  He banged the knocker vigorously, tapping his foot on the top step, unable to conceal his impatience. But the door opened quickly, and Aurelia stood looking up at him in surprise. “Greville…Isn’t it a little late for an afternoon visit?”

  “I need to talk with you.” He stepped adroitly past her into the hall. “Are you alone?”

  “Yes, but I have to go up to Franny in a moment. I always sit with her while she has supper.”

  “Can she wait for a few minutes?” He couldn’t hide his impatience, his gaze flicking around the hall.

  “Yes, of course,” Aurelia said quickly, puzzled. Greville was never impatient. “Come into the salon.” She led the way, then turned to face him as he closed the door behind him. “What is it, Greville?”

  He went to the window, where the curtains were already drawn against the encroaching dark. He moved to one aside, looking out onto the street before letting it fall back. “We have to modify our situation, Aurelia,” he said directly, turning to face her. “I want you and Franny under my roof for the duration of this enterprise.”

  Her jaw dropped. “Under your roof? Whatever do you mean?”

  “I have learned some new details about this Spanish network that make me think they might find my fiancée interesting,” he said bluntly. “I cannot protect you adequately if you’re here and I’m more than half a mile away.”

  She paled, looking at him, her hands clasped against her skirt. “You said you expected no danger to me and certainly not to Franny.”

  “I did not. But that was before some new information was brought to my notice.” He came towards her, taking her hands in his, turning his penetrating gaze onto her upturned countenance. “I swore I would protect you and your child, and I will do so. But you must accept that I know best how to do that.”

  “How serious is this threat?” she asked, withdrawing her hands and turning away to the fire.

  “I don’t know. But I do know that the very possibility of there being a threat of any kind is enough to make me act. So, our engagement needs to become a marriage without delay.”

  She turned back to him. “And how do we break a marriage after three months? It’s a very different matter from an engagement.”

  “I shall be sent on a mission abroad, and my death shall be reported soon after. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “But then you could never come back, never be Greville Falconer again.”

  He gave a short laugh. “My dear Aurelia, that would be no great loss to me. I have had many aliases and will have many more. There’s nothing here to keep me. I have no interest in London’s social scene. No family, no ties of any description. This is the first time in fifteen years that I’ve been back for more than a fleeting visit. I can slip in and out of England for my work as and when necessary with no one being any the wiser. I will leave the country, and you will be free within a matter of months, once the news of my death is verified by the ministry.”

  His words fell like a cold stone into the pit of her stomach. Nothing here to keep me. It was such a negative statement, and it seemed to underscore the temporary nature of their relationship. The times he’d looked at her in a certain way, said things in a certain tone, and the way he made love to her, had made her fancy that perhaps there could be more to their romantic interest than a game to be played for the public eye. She stared down at the emerald ring on her finger, twisting it around so that it caught the candlelight.

  “This was your mother’s ring?” To her it was not a non sequitur.

  “Not exactly. The emerald was part of a set that had belonged to my grandmother.
My mother to my knowledge never wore any of it. That ring itself was made specifically for you. Your fingers are far too slender and dainty for the original setting.” He looked puzzled. “Why do you ask?”

  Such a matter-of-fact explanation of what could have had some significance. It was pointless to deceive herself, to imagine he might feel some inkling of what she felt herself. “No particular reason, just curiosity,” she said with a dismissive gesture, bending to poke the fire. “Wouldn’t it be better if I just withdrew now? If our engagement is broken, I would no longer be of interest to whoever these people are, and Franny and I would no longer be in danger.”

  He shook his head. “Apart from the fact that I need you in this work, Aurelia, now more than ever, until I have dealt with this threat, and completed our enterprise, they will still find you of interest, even just as a way to get to me.”

  “I see.” She felt chilled all over, as if she’d just stepped out of an ice bath. “But how are we to accomplish a wedding so swiftly? We’ve only just become engaged.”

  “At least we are engaged,” he said, moving to his customary position by the fire. “And very publicly. Everyone expects a wedding. If it takes place sooner rather than later, there might a little talk but not much. We’re both past the age of discretion.”

  Aurelia said nothing for a moment. She’d already invested so much time and emotional energy in this enterprise; she’d learned so much, and she loved what she’d learned. It excited her. This change of plan was merely a tweak of the original. And she couldn’t deny the little frisson that the prospect of sharing a roof with Greville for the duration of this enterprise gave her. She had never denied to herself his attraction, or the amazing pleasure he gave her in bed. Why not embrace the opportunity to explore both further in the most natural of circumstances? There was nothing to stop her, and she’d deal with the eventual parting one way or another. She was used to dealing with hurt.