by Deb Marlowe
The comparison was enough to shock her back to her senses. Gradually, she came back to herself. Gathering the shattered pieces of her heart, she stuck them back together with fury. Replaced vulnerability with anger, helplessness with determination.
She wasn’t the same girl she’d been back then. She was stronger now, and far more independent. Most importantly, she’d acquired some unusual knowledge along with her new fortitude.
Scrambling up to search the desktop, she found what she needed—a long thin letter opener. Reaching for the pins in her hair, she scrambled over to kneel before the door. Yes. She bowed her head a moment and sent up silent thanks. This lock was similar enough to the ones at Craven Street. She could open it. She set to work.
It was a tedious process. She pressed her forehead to the door, manipulated the pins with small, delicate movements and let her mind wander. It kept coming back to one particular thorn.
Something felt wrong about this officious move of Aldmere’s. Not only because he would have understood that he was stealing the freedom she’d fought for and given up so much for, but also because locking her away felt like something contrary to his nature.
She paused in her work, holding her pins quite still. That was it. This was exactly what he’d hung back from, what he’d cautioned her against, what he’d been reluctant to do. He’d interfered. He’d meddled.
She blinked. She wasn’t the only one who had changed. It had taken a monumental shift for him to come to her tonight. She’d known it, but hadn’t understood how tremendous a step it would be until he’d told her Bard’s story. She’d been so proud of Aldmere and thrilled for them both, that he could embrace such a change.
Yet perhaps this was something elemental in him that had stayed the same. That is a price I cannot pay.
He’d been gifted with so much, given power and wealth that other men dreamed of, but every blessing had come with a hard price. He spoke of the path he’d been set upon and of being punished for straying off of it.
She started maneuvering pins again in earnest. She had to get out. She’d made the decision not to live in fear when she’d left Marstoke and her home behind. She’d reaffirmed it last night when she’d gathered the courage to ask Aldmere for all that she wanted. She had to show him that he could not lock her away for fear of losing her. He’d trusted her good sense and judgment so far. If they had any chance of being together, he must continue to do so.
He had to know that he was not going to lose her. Not as a punishment. Not as a trick of Fate. Not even as a result of his own idiocy.
Ah. She lifted the top pin slightly. The lock clicked. The study beyond lay empty, but the door into the passage was locked as well. Determination burning in her breast, she knelt and began again.
Twenty
There was more bad news. My marriage was a sham. Lord M—, disguised, had posed as the vicar. He was entirely pleased at having pulled the wool over my eyes. I was utterly ruined, he informed me. Entirely at his mercy.
—from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright
Aldmere leaned against the warm brick of the tobacconist’s shop. Located on Theobald’s Road, it gave him a decent view down Harpur Street. The West End glowed rosy in the setting sun’s light, even as the shadows lengthened their reach. He waited, mentally caressing all the figures in this complicated chess match, each possible move and probable outcome shimmering in his mind like shifting roads on a map. Around him the streets grew busy, but in all the time he watched there was no activity in the brown-bricked house where Tru kept rooms.
He pushed away from the wall. No one lingered about. He’d noted no telltale twitch of curtains in the surrounding buildings. It didn’t keep the back of his neck from tingling with awareness. Someone nearby watched him, likely through the iron sights of a weapon.
Keeping his stride casual, he made his way to the home and entered. Tru’s landlord lived in the set of rooms to the right, with his door near the main entrance and his wall fronting the stairs so that he missed no one’s comings and goings. Aldmere had never entered the place without the man accosting him from the stairwell above or poking his head out of his rooms in greeting, but tonight the entry lay silent, the passages empty.
Tru’s rooms lay on this floor as well. As Aldmere moved toward the door beyond the stairs to the left and in the back, he saw that it had been left opened wide. Easing up to the threshold, he paused to take in the scene.
Everything inside was as neat as a pin. He could discern no sign of Gorman, or of the footman he’d sent over earlier. Only a straight-back chair had been moved from Tru’s desk to the center of the room. In it, comfortably ensconced, sat the Marquess of Marstoke.
“Good evening, your Grace.” The marquess’s leg rocked casually as he raised a brow.
Aldmere didn’t answer. Instead, he stalked forward and tossed the List onto the arm of a settee, well within Marstoke’s reach.
Marstoke leaned forward and snatched it up. A thin smile spread across his face as he leafed through the battered pages. “Ah, very good. You’ve brought it all, even the bits about that viper Hestia and her nest of whores.” He looked up and met Aldmere’s eye. “A bit of my own work, that. A fine bit of tongue-in-cheek prose and close enough to your brother’s style, but done in my own hand for all of that.” He shook his head. “Not the sort of thing to trust to one’s secretary, you know.”
“Treason generally is not. Did you also author the slander against the Princess of Wales?”
Marstoke’s hand stopped ruffling the pages. “I did. So you understand why I could not allow this manuscript to rest in anyone else’s hands.” Deliberately slow, he stacked the pages neatly and set the List on his thigh. “I knew I liked you, Aldmere.” His eyes narrowed a fraction. “I have no liking, however, for the mess you have made. You and your brother have become unexpected and unwelcome thorns in my side.”
“I am inordinately glad to hear it.”
“You should not be glad. Thorns are usually plucked out and tossed aside, you see.” His face darkened. “Lord Truitt has been especially troublesome, since the day he first stumbled into my scheme and felt it necessary to play the knight in shining armor to that damned Russian chit’s damsel in distress. But then, I thought I had found the perfect use for him. It all would have been so easy, had he only listened. I wouldn’t have had to sully my hands at all, would he just have cooperated and written what he was told.” He waved an impatient hand. “Even when he might have inadvertently helped my cause, he managed to make a mess of it.”
Aldmere nodded. Certain mysteries were becoming clear now. “He might have destroyed both of those manuscripts. Instead he burned his own copy.”
“Yes, leaving this one missing. He proved stubborn about it too, seriously compromised my schedule and forced me to come here and meet with you tonight, this very busy and important night.”
Tonight? Then Joe Watts had been right after all. Aldmere’s gut tightened. He hoped like hell that Flemming and the boy had accomplished their mission. “I hate to disappoint you, Marstoke, but I fear there will be nothing special about tonight. Your plot is uncovered.”
The marquess smiled. “You made that clear already.”
“Your wisest course would be to hand Tru over and leave while it is still possible.”
Marstoke inclined his head. “I do thank you for your concern, but it is no matter. Events have been set in motion. There is no stopping it now.” He patted the List. “And no connecting me to it, now, either.”
“Don’t be foolish, man. It’s all found out. If you didn’t have Tru in your pocket, you’d have been taken already.”
“It’s a magnificent bluff, Aldmere, but it won’t work.”
“I’ve been in possession of the List—the full List—for nearly twenty-four hours. Don’t you think I’ve had a dozen copies made and shown it to half of London?”
Marstoke laughed, his face shining with delight. “I’ve never seen a better entrance into the
game, Aldmere. Oh, I am going to enjoy playing against you.”
He clenched his fists. “I just want my brother. I’m not here to play games.”
All the light abruptly vanished from Marstoke’s countenance. “It’s too late to play the fool, Aldmere. It’s what we’re all here for, you see—a vast and wonderful game we are all engaged in. Everyone has their part to play.”
Shaking his head in denial, Aldmere crossed to his brother’s bookshelves.
Undeterred, Marstoke continued. “It is true that most people are not aware. The majority of them act only as pawns—pieces to be moved and used at will. Only a select number can be true players, those few with the wit and discernment to see the beauty of the play in motion.”
The marquess uncrossed his legs. Leaning back in the chair, he hooked an arm around the back of it. Aldmere had to swallow an urge to wipe away the smug look of measurement the man raked over him.
“Your brother is a pawn,” Marstoke said abruptly. “He stumbled into the game and failed to recognize what was happening around him. Initially, I thought to teach him, but he clung with tiresome thoroughness to antiquated notions. So, a pawn he will stay and I intend to use him thusly.”
Aldmere leaned against the bookcase. “You begin to bore me, my lord. It’s your own stubborn refusal to listen that grows tiresome. Your game is over. You’ve lost. The Home Office waits on my word.” He ran a casual finger over a fat, vaguely Grecian looking urn. “You’ve two choices left to you now. The first I offer only out of deference to your rank. You may turn Tru over and head for the nearest port. Or you may delay here a while longer and see tomorrow’s dawning from gaol.”
The marquess stood. “Enough of this. Do you think me a fool? I am one of the greatest players to ever enter into the sport. I hold the fate of kings and princes in my hand. I move men far greater than you at will. Do you think that I haven’t had you watched? Do you think that I don’t know you failed to reach anyone higher than a London magistrate today? That I haven’t discovered that the List spent the greater part of the day in Hestia’s foul bawdy house? I don’t care if that great whore made a hundred copies—they are copies only. This is the only copy that can do me harm and it’s mine now.”
“The story that I have to tell could do a damned good bit of damage,” Aldmere bit out.
“You have the makings of a fine player, your Grace.” Marstoke shook his head. “But you are inexperienced, yet. I admit you were savvy enough to sidestep some of the more obvious false moves that you might have made. You’ve even shown a stroke or two of brilliance. But you have revealed a disappointing bit of sentiment. You’ve allowed your brother to become a weakness.”
Aldmere straightened, his hand lingering on the shelf that held the urn. “He’ll be noted as your weakness, should you not produce him. Now.”
The marquess made tutting noises at him. “Don’t fret. You shall have him, as you have lived up to your end of the bargain.” He stilled. “But there are conditions.”
“The hell you say. There’s been no mention of conditions.”
“Nevertheless. You are no fool, your Grace. You’ve caught at least a glimpse of the larger picture. You have an inkling of what is to happen in the next months. Surely you see that I cannot write a script like this without a villain. Someone must play the dastard and take the blame. Your brother will do nicely for a start.”
Aldmere shook his head, incredulous. “Your confidence is as enormous as your ego, but sadly misplaced. What makes you think I will stand by and allow you to ruin my brother?”
The man shrugged. “Lord Truitt is ruined already. Alone, the last months he’s spent amongst the wrack and rabble might not have caused him permanent damage, but with the publication of the List, he’ll be named a traitor.”
“As will you, damn you, once I’ve finished filling the ears of every government official and society nob in London. And I’ve plenty of witnesses to lend credence to this sorry tale.”
“Who? The printer? I believe you’ve already discovered the futility of that hope. Perhaps you think of the poor little Russian girl? She’s already set sail for home, ahead of the rest of her delegation. I believe that leaves you with children, pimps and whores to back you, your Grace. It will come down to your word against mine.” He tapped the List. “And I’ll have physical evidence, in your brother’s own hand, once I make sure it is missing a few key pages, of course.”
“Ah, but is now the time you wish to undergo that sort of scrutiny?” Aldmere raised a brow. “Anyone who knows you will recognize the ring of truth to my accusations. How far do you think your plans will go if you are the focus of such attention?”
The marquess lifted a shoulder. “It’s true, you might cause a delay. But that is all I will endure, while you will watch your brother suffer a traitor’s death. He’ll be imprisoned. Hanged.” He pursed his lips. “No, I believe you shall do exactly as I say. You shall take your brother and do as you have so kindly suggested to me. Get him to a port city and out of the country as fast as you can.”
Aldmere cursed the man’s confidence as the marquess took his seat once again. “I’m afraid I’m holding all the high cards, here. You’d be a fool not to take the chance I’ve given you.” He smoothed his cuff, then met Aldmere’s gaze with one as cold and still as death. “What say you, your Grace?”
* * *
Her cloak thrown on over her half-buttoned gown, Brynne slipped silently out of Aldmere’s house. Was that a cry she heard as she let the door close behind her? She didn’t intend to stop to be sure. She ran lightly down the stairs, then flew along the quiet streets of the square. She didn’t slow until she reached Pall Mall, and within moments she found a hackney.
Pulling to a stop, the driver looked her over and asked to see her money up front. Impatient, she tossed him a coin and bade him to take her to St. George’s at Hanover Square—just the smallest distance away from Marstoke’s home.
The streets were more crowded than usual. People moved about in groups and a celebratory atmosphere seemed to have overtaken the city. The delay left plenty of time for doubt and insecurity to beset Brynne, but she refused to entertain them. Now was the best time to invade Marstoke House. Now, when she knew without a doubt that the marquess would be occupied elsewhere. While Marstoke was busy trying to pry the List from Aldmere, she would be digging up something else to use as evidence against him.
Mere minutes passed before the carriage creaked to a halt. She climbed down unassisted. With a jaunty salute of his crop, the jarvey pulled away—and Brynne’s heart nearly stopped as a nimble figure jumped from the back of the hack down to the pavement beside her.
“Heaven and earth!” she gasped. Clutching her cloak tight, she glared at the girl grinning up at her. “Francis! What are you doing?”
“Tailin’ ye,” the urchin answered casually.
Brynne frowned. “Did Hatch send you?”
“No.” The grin faded. “I sent myself. Things are stirrin’ tonight and I figgered ye’d be in the thick of it—and in need of some ’elp.” She crossed her arms. “And weren’t I right? Ye don’t even know I’m not the only one trailin’ behind ye.”
“What?” Brynne gripped the child’s hand and looked up and down the street. “Who else is following?”
“Tall bloke, but that’s all I got ter see. He followed ye from yer duke’s house and took a hack after ye.” She gestured back towards Conduit Street. “I watched from the back of yers and he followed all the way ’ere. He should be ’bout ready ter come ’round the corner.”
Brynne pulled the girl quickly up the stone steps of the cathedral and into a shallow corner behind the grand columns. “Marstoke’s man?” she muttered. “If so, he’ll never let me near the house.”
Francis shrugged. “Not sure ye’d want ter go in, anyways. I seen the girls what go in, and how they look comin’ out, too.”
“I’m going,” Brynne declared. “Now, while Marstoke is away.” She sighed. “See if you can i
dentify the hackney going by. If we stay ducked in here a bit, he might lose us and keep going.” A sudden thought occurred to her and she pulled her cloak aside and huddled down in the corner. “While we are waiting, help me, please, Francis. I’ve much to accomplish tonight and don’t fancy doing any of it half dressed.”
The child’s small fingers made quick work of the buttons. Brynne tried not to cringe at the irony of it all. Could the girl at the Dalton’s ball, the innocent she used to be, have imagined huddling here in the portico of the church she might have been married in, being buttoned into a borrowed dress?
“There ’e goes,” Francis said calmly. “I seen ’is driver wi’ that red scarf at ’is neck.” She skipped up and, hugging a column, peered around it. “No good,” she said. “The toff’s stopped and climbed down at the end of the street.”
“Blocking my way to the house, blast him,” Brynne swore. “But perhaps I can go around the back? Enter through the servant’s entrance?”
“Cor, ain’t no one more hoity than a toff, ’less’n it’s his servants. Too hard to make it past that mob. Front door’s only got one servant, and a man at that.” The child gestured toward her cloak. “Throw that back and make use o’ what God gave ye.”
Brynne closed her eyes and bit her tongue. “Can you still see him?” she asked. “If he doesn’t tarry long, then this may still work.”
“’E’s standin’ on the corner, lyin’ in wait. I can lure ’im off, quick-like. Done it a dozen times, at least. And he had to see me ’anging off the back o’ yer hack.”
“No!” Brynne vetoed quickly. “I don’t want you in harm’s way.”
But the frustrating child had already skipped down the steps and melted into the foot traffic. Brynne cursed and followed helplessly as Francis crossed the street and made her way towards the wider open space at the start of Hanover Square, but the girl weaved in and out amongst the people in a way that she couldn’t duplicate. Brynne kept to the edge near the street and just managed to catch sight of Francis as she maneuvered her way to the corner and lingered out in full view.