‘That’s woman’s talk, my friend. You’re asking the wrong person.’ Cole backed away, palms up. He couldn’t get farther from the subject. ‘Have the physician pay call. Tell her you were worried about the dizzy spells, then take the old man aside and lay out the truth.’ He chuckled. ‘It may go smoother if the doctor is the one to confirm things.’
‘You’re right.’ Sin made for the door. ‘And keep this between us, like always.’
‘I’ve forgotten it already.’
Chapter Fifteen
It was later that afternoon when Ace scrambled into his office, note in hand. Cole tossed the boy a coin and opened the message. Maggie needed his help at Second Chances. A few peers had visited, asked probing questions and left her with uneasy suspicions. Additionally, there was a leak in one of the upstairs rooms that waited repair. She ended with a brief report of new arrivals and successful departures of the people they strove to serve. Her last line reminded he must dress as Goodworth now that the nabobs and betters poked around the lodging house.
Cole agreed. The last thing they needed was for his association to be discovered. With an original intent to create an alternate identity and prevent irate gamblers from taking retribution on Second Chances after Cole collected his vowels at the hell, he perpetuated the duplicity. As time passed it became second nature to have two identities, the disguise convenient and necessary, although at the moment one life proved more than enough.
Checking in with Sinclair, he made his way out, released Pittman at his apartments and became Goodworth all in the span of sixty minutes. Then he hailed a hackney and travelled to Charing Cross.
He checked the immediate conclusion that he was going home. Logic told him he had no home. Not the fancy apartments on Wigmore, nor the tiny flat where Maggie had welcomed him all those years ago. Charing Cross might have claimed the longest span of years in his life, but he couldn’t label it home. Nor now in Mayfair, his life interchangeable. He was the definitive homeless man, unable to find a place to live without the burden of the other residences which collectively created his past.
The driver yanked the reins too hard and the hack pulled to an abrupt stop. Cole flipped the driver an extra coin as he exited and spied a wee child on the bottom step of the lodging house. What could she be about?
‘Now, why are you on the front steps? Surely Cook is looking for a little assistant in the kitchen. You never know when a spoon needs licking.’ He crouched low to address the child, dressed in a clean pink frock, hair newly washed and combed, the bruise on her cheekbone paled to yellow. She was the reason he was Goodworth. He needed no other motivation. ‘Hurry your pretty self along and no more eavesdropping.’ How was it the children at Second Chances always knew when he planned to visit, his pockets full of treats and trinkets? Having left with haste, he had none to offer today, but he’d compensate next time.
‘Hello.’ He strode into the downstairs recreation room to an accolade of greetings and waves. Maggie met his entrance with a curt nod towards the office located in the back of the house. It was the one place they paid bills, wrote drafts and were guaranteed a share of privacy.
‘What happened?’ He plopped into the closest chair and adjusted his spectacles.
‘Things were as usual until a fine carriage with two greys parked at the corner. The swell inside walked the length of the street, taking in as much as his jaded eyes allowed. Then, perhaps because our establishment appears the cleanest and most well-kept, he knocked on the door and asked to see our rooms. I had no way to stop him without inviting suspicion so I allowed him to tour the house. He mentioned he would send others in the near future. The whole experience left me squirrelly. He didn’t seem a kind man and certainly didn’t leave a donation to assist with our cause.’ Maggie threw up her hands in a show of frustration.
Cole listened, his wheels spinning with fast conclusions. Several new proposals to amend the Poor Law Act crowded the newspaper columns with detailed daily reports, one after the other, of volatile Parliamentary debate. Currently there was a strong motion to rid London of rehabilitation houses like Second Chances and an equally pressing movement to build more structures. With no decisive action, he couldn’t blame Maggie for her trepidations. Either way, Cole wondered at the visitor’s identity and motive. ‘Did he say anything else?’
‘Not a word. Rode off all fancy without a thank you or a coin.’ Maggie gave a disapproving nod and scowled. ‘They make another kind of donation, though, don’t they?’
Cole didn’t respond, any reply evaporating on his tongue. He knew exactly to what Maggie referred, being one of the dozens of children she’d scooped off the streets. She may have rescued him and offered food, clothing and shelter, but she didn’t know the particulars; his blood ran half blue. He was one of the bastards created by the careless peerage and abandoned soon after.
He told himself his mother had believed she was offering him a better way of life by depositing her mistake on his father’s doorstep. Cole wished he had some remembrance of her, but somehow, over those early years, any memories were too weak to survive, overtaken by the horrors of daily life. If he knew her whereabouts now, he would buy her a pretty gown, a bonnet and pair of silk gloves, no matter she’d abandoned him. Or more likely, these were the tales he spun in his head to cope with his past and pretend, even if only for a little while, that someone had once cared enough to seek him a better life.
He matched Maggie’s concerned frown and offered reassurance. ‘I will lend an ear to Parliament and see what I can discover. I have a friend who has a friend.’
‘You always do.’ Maggie donned a slight smile at last, her posture more relaxed. ‘How are you? When you visited me last you seemed out of sorts.’ She knew better than to press.
‘Don’t waste your worries on me, Maggie-girl. Anyway, I’ll have someone fix that leak by day’s end.’ He left promptly after, wanting to avoid any further talk of inconvenient feelings.
Gemma considered the two evening gowns Nan displayed on the wardrobe. ‘I shall wear the crimson.’ She turned to her vanity, her restless gaze flitting from jewellery box and perfume bottles, and at last to brush and comb. Preparing for an event of the ton had once enthralled her, at least before her father passed. Now conflicted emotion marred the process.
Kent worked tirelessly on his speech in preparation of his session in the House of Lords. He was currently away for two days with the reform party who worked to combat the laws currently indoctrinated, but while she’d had the opportunity before he left on his brief trip, she hadn’t asked about the night of Father’s death. Part of her wished to know and another more cowardly part insisted it didn’t matter. That she should embrace the future in deference to the past, the ability to change the events of that evening an impossibility.
Yet what did her future hold? Wealth and advantage were useless if she couldn’t have what she wanted. She brought her fingers to her lips, remembering Cole’s soul-searing kiss, and his ever-present image formed in her mind. She hadn’t stopped thinking of him since their intimacy and how his eyes looked right after they’d broken apart, sincere emotion a-glitter in the warm brown depths. She believed he was as affected as she. And oh, how she’d felt after he touched her. He’d gifted her a new awareness of her body, an understanding she never knew existed.
In a habit formed through many years, she tilted her head back so Nan could brush her hair until it gleamed. ‘Let’s leave the length down this evening. I can arrange a coif to match the Greek style of your gown, milady.’
‘That’s fine.’ Gemma released a breath of acceptance, too preoccupied to care.
‘Lady Sophie will be there, will she not?’ Nan set to work with the hairpins, her fingers as busy as her conversation.
‘I’m sure.’ Gemma sought her maid’s reflection in the mirror. Since her mother’s death she’d turned to Nan for every question, but this seemed too personal. Gemma wasn’t sure she understood her feelings towards Cole, so
how could she hope to explain them to someone else?
‘What is it? You know you can tell me anything. I’ve been with you through life’s milestones, sadness and joy, for so many years now.’ Nan finished and folded her hands against her skirt in wait. ‘I hope my company has brought you the fulfilment it has given me.’
‘Of course. I’m sorry.’ There wasn’t much more to say. ‘Sometimes my emotions are so strong I fail in their explanation.’
‘You’ll tell me when you’re ready then?’ Her maid’s eyes softened and Gemma saw genuine caring in their depths.
‘I will. I promise.’
Cole paced across his office, silent on the outside only.
‘You’re making me dizzy, a bit like the beasts in the Royal Menagerie. Have you seen the leopard there? He behaves in the same manner, a caged animal on the hunt for a way out.’ Sinclair enjoyed the jest though Cole ignored him. ‘Perhaps you need a night away.’
What was needed was a change of subject. ‘Have you an idea of the new reform in Parliament lately? Isn’t the Duke of Kent involved in that nonsense?’ He strove to keep his enquiries light, though he wanted to know exactly who’d visited Second Chances and what purpose they served.
‘Not a clue. Legislation makes my head ache more than your pacing, and apparently causes the same malady for Kent. He’s away from London for a few days.’ Sin took a sip of his brandy and swung his feet to the desktop, a pose of utter relaxation in contrast to Cole’s agitation. He couldn’t stand still.
‘How did you come by this information?’ A spark of an idea burned through his brain.
‘Sophie Daventry invited Vivienne to a high-end evening social in Mayfair. Something about the Fairbanks’ seasonal fête. Vivienne declined, claiming fatigue, but through our conversation mentioned Kent’s sister would be in attendance without her brother. Apparently, he’s placed her under close supervision. For what, I can’t fathom, but Kent’s carefree days seem long lost since he’s assumed the title.’
Cole stopped mid-step. ‘I hope Vivienne improves. Didn’t you summon the physician? I thought we settled that matter already.’
‘Yes. I plan to in the morning.’
But Cole had stopped listening, the voice in his head that screamed with opportunity blocking out Sin’s response. He could see Gemma. Away from her overbearing brother. Just one look, one glance.
A high-class function like a seasonal fête would be invitation only with dozens of footmen and servants on the prowl for interlopers. A distinct difference from that ridiculous out-of-doors musicale. Still, he couldn’t allow opportunity to pass, not when the memory of Gemma’s sweet mouth burned his lips still. He needed to find a way into the Fairbanks’ party. He could go as himself. Not everyone in London frequented the Underworld, although a large enough population had lost money and recorded their debt in his books. Unfortunately, the right lord with the wrong attitude and he’d become embroiled in fisticuffs before he stole a kiss from Gemma.
A better plan was required.
Risky, but he could attend the Fairbanks’ fête dressed as Goodworth. Well, not truly Goodworth. Just the darkened hair and whiskers. He’d leave aside the ashy skin for fear he’d frighten the uppity guests into thinking he brought typhus into the room. He wouldn’t be able to taste her lovely skin or inhale her honeysuckle fragrance, but it would allow him access to the affair. And as he planned to stay out of view, she’d never puzzle over his appearance. It could work. He’d never dared to use his Goodworth disguise for any purpose aside from Second Chances. But maybe just this once…
A half-grin emerged as his thoughts solidified. He’d enter just far enough to watch Gemma dance. Yes, one dance. That’s all. Naturally, her card would fill very quickly. Son of a bitch, he knew it would. An ill feeling followed that conclusion, but he ignored it, his desire to see her overriding the cost of watching some nameless gentleman sweep her across the parquet floor. At the core of it all, one fact remained. He needed to see her.
‘Deuces!’ He slapped the window glass with his palm.
‘Did I miss something?’ Sin eyed him with a look of sceptical alarm.
‘I have to go.’ He grabbed his cap from the hook on the wall.
‘Now? We’re an hour from closing.’
‘I know. It’s late, but the orchestra will likely be on its last number if I don’t hurry.’
‘What? Where?’ Sin called after him but the slam of the door dissected the end of his question.
Gemma looped arms with Sophie to engage in conversation and share a few words in a half-hearted effort to distract from relentless dismay. Better sense reminded Cole could never attend such an elite affair, still she yearned to see him. Her dance card filled quickly, her champagne flute as well, and she forced a courteous laugh now as Lord Burton regaled with an exaggerated accounting of his hunting skill. Gemma preferred things living to dead, but she offered a congenial smile to politely acknowledge the gentleman’s effort.
‘Do excuse us, Lord Burton, I see a dear friend near the refreshment table and I must offer my regards.’ Gemma tugged on Sophie’s arm, her friend’s feet already in motion.
‘He was handsome. Why did we have to leave?’ Sophie frowned with a quick glance over her shoulder.
‘I remain unimpressed by anyone’s conceited victory over defenceless animals. If he wrestles a bear to the ground with one hand, then I’m ready to listen.’ She couldn’t help but smile at the picture she’d drawn with her words.
‘That’s ridiculous.’ Sophie sidled up to the table. ‘The bear would win.’
‘I know. That’s the point. How can one boast proudly of hunting when a weapon is employed?’ Gemma lifted a glass of ratafia. ‘He was a man of opposites, short in stature and very long-winded.’
‘You are making quite a list of rejections this evening. What has got into you?’ Sophie twirled from the table and faced the kaleidoscope of elegant ballgowns and fine tailored suits. ‘Let’s see.’ She feigned a thoughtful repose. ‘Lord Paddon’s hair was too dark, Lord Preslin’s eyes too light, Lord Gordall’s smile too wide, and his brother, the other Lord Gordall, rejected for his assertive chuckle.’
‘I’m a wretch, aren’t I?’
They shared a secret giggle, aware they were acting adolescent.
‘Still, you’ve danced with several gentlemen who have all showered you with compliments and rushed to fill your glass, albeit you continue to scan the floor as if you’re looking for someone in particular.’ Sophie didn’t mince words and Gemma was forced to stop, caught in the act.
What did she expect? Another secret meeting in the salon? Somehow for Cole to suddenly appear to escort her onto the dance floor? He would never be invited to an affair of the ton, unwelcomed and shunned. The realisation stuck like a barb under her skin. How unjust and prejudiced.
‘The gentlemen who have shown me attention wish for one thing.’
‘Kisses,’ Sophie suggested quickly.
‘No. A different k.’ She shook her head with the admittance. ‘Kent.’
‘I wonder if anyone here has information about Crispin. Sadly, our well-intended enquiries have gone topsy-turvy.’ Sophie replaced her untouched glass on the refreshment table with the lament.
‘Lately, I feel like my entire life is topsy-turvy.’ Gemma dared another glance around the room. ‘I am a curiosity, that’s all. I’m fresh out of mourning with a sizeable dowry and an influential brother. I suppose that is the finest marriage bait to any available bachelor on the hunt for a wife.’
‘It sounds terrible when you put it that way.’ Sophie’s voice dropped a notch. ‘I know you wish to marry for love and I believe it possible. Perhaps, though, you shouldn’t compare every man to this imaginary ideal.’
Cole. Soft blond hair, warm brown eyes, strength and cleverness hidden in a devastating smile that caused her heart to beat triple time. No one in this room could compare… no one, ever. ‘You make a fine point.’ She forced
the words from her mouth.
But private moment was interrupted as Lord Cravley claimed the next dance, a flirtatious quadrille, and as she took her position in formation on the floor the hairs on the back of her neck prickled. She straightened her spine and peered with apprehension to the left and the right, but no one unexpected was there. Wondering if Winton was in attendance as his presence alerted her senses to caution, she realised this was different. An innate awareness, as if her heart had beat out of synch and just now returned to proper rhythm. She released a slow exhale, hoping to consider the feeling further, but the music intruded and she joined in the step with enjoyable vigour, the whirling gaiety exactly what she needed to force away foreboding.
Lord Cravley proved an accomplished dancer and her attention stayed riveted to his attentive lead. She twirled through a turn in her periphery vision and caught a glimpse, nothing more than a blur to ignite her curiosity. The dance was too fast for her to focus, too vertiginous for her to find the image again, but for the scantest moment she believed she saw Mr Goodworth standing near the far wall. A murk of black perhaps. His hair and outlandish moustache were unmistakable as she remembered the colour darker than the shiniest leather boots.
She dismissed the idea as ridiculous, convinced she must be disoriented from the quadrille’s ambitious pace. She’d much prefer to fill her vivid daydreams with the remembrance of Cole’s kisses in his house on Wigmore Street. That secret rendezvous was locked in her heart as a grand adventure.
The music ended and she clasped Lord Cravley’s arm, thankful for his support as her pulse skittered, a portentous reminder something was not right. Lord Cravley deposited her near a marble column and excused himself courteously, his next dance partner in wait, but for Gemma the evening had lost its charm, confusion overriding any previous enjoyment. What wasn’t she seeing in the room? Did Winton set someone to watch her? Had Kent sunken to low means and employed an acquaintance to scrutinise her interactions?
Into the Hall of Vice Page 16