by Gaelen Foley
“W-what do you mean?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. Here. Take this as a token of my goodwill.” He swung Baumer’s money purse gently before the man’s glazed eyes, then tossed it to him. It fell onto the floor with a soft clank between Fred and his pipe.
“For me? Thanks, Blade! Why you givin’ me gold?” Fred turned and struggled to find it, muttering. “Nobody ever gives me nothin’.”
“Trust me, you deserve it.”
“Crikey!” he breathed, staring at the rain of coins as he poured them out onto the floor between his sprawled legs.
While he was distracted, Rackford deftly swiped the man’s little wooden box of first-rate Turkish opium.
Slowly, silently backing out of the room, he went and deposited it in the largest room in the building—the one that used to be his and which now belonged to Cullen O’Dell.
Before long, Rackford was free of the place, elated with his success as he strode down the street. Soon the thefts would be discovered and the Jackals would be at each other’s throats.
If Bloody Fred told the others he had seen Billy Blade’s ghost, they would consider it naught but the hallucination of an addicted opium-eater.
Cocky and free for the moment, he felt like his old self again, but all of a sudden, he missed his mates terribly. Especially Nate. He shoved the pain away. He could not afford it. He had done his best for them. Still, the fact that he was totally alone, cut off from everyone he trusted, drained his fleeting sense of victory.
Hopping on the back of a passing dray cart, he stole a ride like he used to as a boy. Within twenty minutes, he was in front of his father’s house. He vaulted over the garden wall again and crept back obediently into his silk-hung cage.
CHAPTER TEN
The next morning promptly after breakfast Jacinda went to the subscription library on the corner of St. James’s and Pall Mall to make her own investigation of Lord Rackford by consulting the very oracle of the ton, Debrett’s Peerage. All savvy young ladies knew to look up their suitors and other persons of interest in this esteemed volume in order to learn their lineage and background. She flipped through the delicate pages of the massive tome, a woman on a mission.
With Lucien still in the West Country, the almighty book seemed her best hope for finding independent confirmation of Blade’s tale. Meanwhile, behind her, the other patrons moved quietly over the hardwood floors, taking their selections to the clerk’s large circular desk. Miss Hood was reading an article in the latest issue of La Belle Assemblée, her bonnet neatly tied under her chin, her folded parasol hooked over her forearm. Lizzie had torn herself away from Alec’s side long enough to accompany her, as well, never one to miss a chance to pop into a place where books were housed.
Lizzie was squinting through her reading spectacles, scanning the shelves for the latest volumes by the newfangled German philosophers. She emitted a little cry of delight that echoed through the quiet library when she seized upon the newest work of Goethe.
“Shh!” the library clerk hushed her.
“Sorry,” Lizzie said absently, blushing.
Jacinda shot her a look that brimmed with laughter. Lizzie held up the Goethe and pointed excitedly at it. Jacinda shook her head at her in amusement. A hopeless bluestocking, she thought, but smiled at her friend. Things were finally beginning to get back to normal between them now that she had confided in Lizzie.
Last night in the carriage on the way home from the Devonshire ball, Alec had teased Jacinda unceasingly about her waltz with Lord Rackford, which had apparently raised a few eyebrows, not to mention Robert’s hackles.
Jacinda had thought she was in the clear when Bel had soothed the duke’s displeasure, but later, when she had been getting ready for bed in her chambers, Lizzie had tiptoed in in her night rail and had started asking questions.
In the end, Jacinda had finally told her best friend everything. Well—almost everything. She had told her the whole story of how she had met Billy Blade in the rookery and had even admitted that she had let him kiss her, but already blushing crimson, she could not bring herself to tell Lizzie just how far she had let that tattooed heathen go. The girls had sat on her bed drinking chocolate and talking into the wee hours of the night.
Jacinda had felt much better after sharing the whole account with her best friend. She ought to have done it sooner, she knew, but Lizzie had taken her attempt to run away personally and had remained miffed at her, so that Jacinda hardly dared wonder how she would take the news of her visit to the rookery. Besides, Lizzie had judged Blade a “nasty man” on sight that day long ago when he had come to Knight House to provide the twins with information. Lizzie was still as skeptical about him as she was, but since he had stopped Jacinda from running away and had brought her back safely to her family, Lizzie was willing to give him a chance. Above all, Jacinda knew she could trust Lizzie to keep the secret of his past. Even if he was lying, she did not want to get him into trouble with the law.
Presently, she turned to the pages in Debrett’s devoted to the Albright family. Her heart beat faster as she trailed her gloved fingertip down the narrow column of print.
Albright, Ld. William Spencer. b. 1788 Perranporth, Cornwall—2nd son M. of Truro and St. Austell. edu. Eton. Missing, 1801. Presumed dead.
“Well?”
She looked over. Lizzie stood beside her with an expectant look. Jacinda tapped the paragraph in perplexity.
Lizzie peered down at it, then turned to her, taking off her reading spectacles. Lizzie glanced over her shoulder at Miss Hood, then looked at Jacinda again. “Maybe he is telling the truth?”
Jacinda bit her lip in thought. Burning curiosity raced through her, but although she did not know what to believe, she had to admit that his entry into Society had brought an undeniable sense of thrill to the Season ahead.
Could his cock-and-bull tale be true? A dozen questions about his past spun through her mind. If he was really the son of a marquess, how had he fallen in with thieves? Had he truly never meant to claim his rightful place just to have revenge on his father?
“What are you going to do?” Lizzie asked as Jacinda shut the large book with a snap of resounding finality.
“Make him talk,” she declared, determination glowing in her eyes. “I must know everything.”
“I daresay it’s damn unsporting of a chap not to say where he’s been the past decade and a half,” George Winthrop grumbled that evening, frowning over his port.
“Nonsense, George,” Acer Loring drawled, turned to give him a superior smile. “If Rackford prefers to be mysterious, that is his prerogative. I daresay, by keeping mum, he has provided the ton with more entertainment than they’ve had since—well, at least since Byron’s fall from grace last month.”
The dandies snickered among themselves.
“Though I must admit,” Acer went on, scratching his smooth cheek, “it does leave one wondering if perhaps our new friend has something genuinely worth hiding. What say you, Rackford?”
The fashionable set of young bucks waited expectantly for his reply.
Rackford wanted to kill them. Somehow he managed to check his temper, however, knowing he was fortunate enough merely that none of them recognized him as the barbaric man they had mocked in Hyde Park. Smiling blandly, he refused to rise to the bait. And they were baiting him.
Make no mistake of it, he warned himself, growing more coldly furious by the second. Right there in Lady Sudeby’s drawing room, he was besieged. Unlike Cullen O’Dell and his Jackals, the glib Acer Loring and his chums were experts in the sneak attack. New as he was to the polite world, he did not know how he was supposed to react, how to defend himself against these droll insinuations and taunting remarks. In the rookery, where respect was everything, he had killed men for less. When he had turned on one of the impudent young bucks with a sudden snarl, Acer had laughed at him for his inability to take a joke. That was when he realized that they were trying to lure him into an angry outburst in the
hopes of seeing him make a fool of himself.
They dared not challenge him outright. They were afraid of him. He could smell it. Only their numbers gave them nerve. There was nothing to be done but to endure, waiting for the rest of the guests to arrive for Lady Sudeby’s dinner party.
He had only come in the hopes of seeing Jacinda so he could try again with her after having botched things so badly last night. Now, however, he was in dread of seeing her, knowing that these pampered bastards were going to humiliate him in front of her just like they had done that day in the park.
Acer went back to bragging about his racehorse. Rackford glanced again at the doorway. Only the possibility of seeing Jacinda kept him from storming out as he had last night. He had already been taken to task by a few of the women for abandoning the Devonshire ball so early.
Next, the dandies began reminiscing about their Oxford days, well aware that he had not been there with them. Already a bit bewildered by their flurry of Classical references and Latin maxims, he was lost when Acer and George exchanged a few lines in French, watching out of the corner of their eyes to see if he had understood. He just stood there, feeling like an oaf. The implication was clear: He was an ignorant brute.
Fair enough.
Then they turned to the amusing subject of who had made his clothes.
“Er, Stulz, I think,” he said haplessly.
“You think? You don’t know?” George exclaimed, appalled.
Acer laughed idly, looking him over. “Really, Rackford, a purple waistcoat? You should horsewhip your valet for allowing you to leave the house. Black or white for evening, man. Don’t you know anything?”
“Oh.” He pretended to take it all in lazy good humor, but with Jacinda expected at any moment, his pride was half trampled. He dreaded seeing her, certain she was going to take one look at him and laugh; yet, glancing around the drawing room, he honestly thought he was dressed as well as any of the men. His father had his clothes made by Stultz, after all. Rackford’s single-breasted coat and trousers were conservative black silk, his cravat flawless. His damned shoes had been shined with champagne. So what if a man liked a waistcoat with some color to it? Why did he have to look exactly like everybody else?
He wondered what they would have said about his tattoos.
“A gentleman only trusts Mr. Weston of Conduit Street to get the cut of his clothes right,” Acer was in the midst of informing him. “Boots from Hoby’s, hats from Lock’s. Anything else is barbaric.”
“Well, perhaps I have a bit of the barbarian in me,” he warned with a dangerous smile, his patience wearing thin.
“Quite,” Acer agreed.
A chorus of “ooh’s” and “aah’s” arose from the others, who seemed to want a good milling match. Acer smirked, oblivious of how close he was to being put through the nearest wall.
At that moment, like his guardian angel, Lady Jacinda walked into the room.
His heart caught in his throat at her charming smile as she greeted their hostess. Her upswept golden curls were artfully disheveled, confined with a ribbon tied into a bow above her left eye. Her dinner gown was of pale tangerine silk with short puff sleeves trimmed with white lace. She wore a modest string of pearls around her neck and high white satin gloves. An India shawl of rich gold, amber, and purple swirls was drawn negligently through each arm, forming a flowing drapery along her slender figure.
Then she turned away to greet someone else, and Rackford drew in his breath at the low-cut back of her dress. He stared, riveted by the expanse of creamy skin, the supple sweep of her spine, and the delicate architecture of her shoulder blades. The soft gathers of her silk shawl brushed the back of her waist. Seized with visions of kissing every inch of her body, he did not remember to breathe until she moved on, gliding into the drawing room.
She greeted people here and there with a warmth and refinement that ran deeper than all her rebellious protests against the ways of the ton when she had turned up in the rookery that night, angry at the world.
As Rackford promptly recovered from the initial jolt of want, somehow merely seeing her eased some of the tension from him, even though he knew she despised him. He stood a little taller, breathed a little easier, and watched her with a possessive glow coming into his eyes. She sparkled like the rarest of jewels and embodied the fineness that the aristocracy could produce at its best. Any man with sense, he supposed, would have resolved to forget her after her flat set-down the night before, but somehow, Lord help him, the challenge of her every rejection only made him want her more.
His heart beast faster as the party from Knight House made their way through the room. There was no sign of her ancient beau, Lord Drummond.
After what felt like an eternity, Jacinda casually strolled over to their group with another young lady by her side, but he soon realized in chagrin that she was ignoring him. Yes, he felt a distinct chill floating in his direction from her. Meanwhile, the idiotic dandies plied her with compliments. These Jacinda laughed off, calling them absurd and gaily abusing her admirers with her wit.
“Jas,” Acer drawled, “what do you think of Rackford’s waistcoat?”
The others laughed.
She passed a bored look over Rackford.
He scowled ferociously at the leading dandy, his heart pounding with restrained violence. He had known the moment of humiliation would come, but he had been too stupid to run while he’d had the chance.
Jacinda turned back to Acer with an indifferent shrug. “What about it?”
“It’s purple.”
“I see that,” she said.
“Purple’s all exploded,” Acer said in contempt.
Jacinda studied Rackford for a long moment. He could barely bring himself to meet her gaze, wanting to wither of shame where he stood, but then something, maybe pity, flickered in the depths of her starry-night eyes. “That’s not what Alec says,” she informed Acer in a quelling tone, nodding toward a blond young man on crutches.
The dandies let out a collective gasp.
“Lord Alec’s wearing purple?” George Winthrop asked in alarm.
“Not at the moment, you dolt, but he was just telling us on the way over here about a purple marcella waistcoat he ordered last week. He’ll be cross at you, Lord Rackford.” She favored him with a quick, aloof smile, though her eyes snapped sparks at him. “My brother always likes to be the first to usher in the latest thing. He is quite the arbiter of fashion.”
He said nothing, holding her gaze. He knew she was lying through her teeth for him, had just come to his rescue when she could have delivered the coup de grace to his pride. He could do nothing but stare at her in utter adoration.
Giving him a saucy little look of private reproach, she turned away and started to move on with her friend. Think fast.
“Lady Jacinda,” he called, stopping her. “Pray, have you seen Lady Sudeby’s Canaletto?” He gestured toward the painting that hung above the fireplace.
Jacinda’s golden eyebrows arched high. Her gaze followed his hand. Hanging above the mantel in all its splendor was the Italian master’s luminous landscape.
“Why, it’s beautiful,” her companion murmured, taking a step closer.
Jacinda turned back to him in question, barely hiding her bemusement. “Goodness, I had heard that it was stolen.”
He shrugged, his eyes dancing. “Lady Sudeby was telling us a short while ago that some anonymous benefactor managed to retrieve it, and returned it to her.”
“An anonymous benefactor?” she asked meaningfully.
“Indeed.”
“How very mysterious! I am so pleased it has been returned to its rightful owner.” She paused, casting him a wily look. “Actually, Lord Rackford, I was not aware that you were acquainted with Lady Sudeby.”
“She is my aunt,” he said drily. “My mother’s twin sister.”
She blinked with astonishment, then quickly looked away, biting her lip to hold back her mirth at his revelation. She cleared her th
roat. “Lord Rackford, allow me to present my dearest friend in all the world, Miss Elizabeth Carlisle.”
He bowed to her modestly pretty companion. “Miss Carlisle, it is a pleasure.”
“How do you do, my lord,” the older, brown-haired girl murmured, curtseying.
Rackford felt himself closely inspected by Miss Carlisle’s penetrating gaze as he bowed over her hand. Truly, he wanted the earth to swallow him at the moment, for he sensed that the best friend was making her own judgment on his worthiness or lack thereof for Her Ladyship. That could only mean Jacinda had told her friend heaven-knew-what about him, maybe even about his blundering proposal of the previous night.
Blasted women. They could never keep a thing to themselves, but this one, he realized, could make or break his cause with the queen bee.
Straightening up again, he glanced at Jacinda, rather miffed by his suspicions. He only hoped Miss Carlisle could hold her tongue about whatever she had been told.
Upon the announcement shortly thereafter that dinner was served, Jacinda saw fit to award him the privilege of taking her down to dine. In the luxuriously appointed dining room, the candelabras glowed, burnishing the gilding throughout the room and gleaming upon the fine silver and exquisite painted china. He walked his lady to her place and pulled out her chair for her, waiting as she daintily sat down. His gloved fingertips brushed the bare skin of her back. He saw the small shiver that ran down her spine at his light, accidental touch.
“You look ravishing,” he murmured loud enough for only her to hear as he pushed in her chair.
She slipped him a haughty look that warned he was not in the clear yet. Rather chastened, he nodded to her, then went in search of his seat. He soon found that his dotty aunt had surrounded him with young ladies whose mothers had never dared break Society’s rules.
Jacinda sat on the opposite side of the table, two chairs down. Taking his seat, he blanched at the intimidating array of silverware before him, spread out like so many surgeon’s tools. Wonderful, he thought in disgust.
Acer was sitting nearby and was watching him with interest, as though he already suspected that half of the odd-shaped spoons and tiny forks were completely foreign to him. Rackford dropped his gaze, placing his napkin on his lap.