The Lady and the Gent (London League, Book 1)

by Rebecca Connolly

  A sensible, respectable marriage with congenial friendship would suffice. Love could grow. Good men could be found in Society, and a good man would make a far better husband than the rascal whose smile made her knees quiver. He probably had several ladies about town that he behaved similarly with. Why, he might even be married with six children, for all she knew.

  Better to set her mind on a man who could keep her in England and give her a future.

  Unfortunately, despite the best efforts of her parents and several governesses, tutors, and nannies, Margaret Easton had never been particularly adept at setting her mind on sensible things, and even worse at maintaining resolve, particularly where propriety was required. She’d always had a free spirit and independent will, no matter how prim and docile she appeared. Her parents had encouraged it, as several European families also did.

  Could such an unconventional English girl snag a conventional, yet somehow still exciting English husband with only one Season to do so?

  She swallowed and sipped her cold tea without tasting it.

  It might be impossible.

  But it was her only hope.

  Rafe groaned and shoved his hands into his dark hair, disheveling it further than it already was, if that was possible. He hated the tedium of paperwork more than he hated anything in his life, and the mountains of information he had collected by conversation was now before him on parchment as proof.

  And all of the pertinent details he needed for his current task lay within them.

  Which meant he had to pore over them all with exactness.

  He was a spy, a pickpocket, an actor, a jack of all trades, and on good days, a passable codebreaker. He possessed many skills, far more than anybody knew, and could pick up just about anything new in record time. He spoke six languages fluently and could mimic accents of seven more.

  But he was no scholar, and he had limited patience.

  He was going to die here in this dank office, buried in the papers that he had been tasked with investigating.

  How long would it take for someone to find his body, he wondered as he moved his head to rest against the desk, closing his eyes.

  “I doubt you are going to glean any information that way,” Rogue’s voice drawled from the doorway.

  “If I am useless, so be it,” Rafe returned, remaining as he was. “Then I will be dismissed and someone else will have to do this part.”

  Rogue gave a dry chuckle. “It’s your own fault. If you would be more orderly in your interviews and structured in your reviews, this would all be much easier.”

  “Don’t tell me how to do my job.”

  “I would never.”

  Something about his friend’s tone gave Rafe pause as he considered beating his head against the aged wood of his desk. He raised his uninjured head and squinted at him. “What?”

  Rogue leaned against the doorjamb with what could almost be considered a smile for him, which meant it was a vacant expression for any normal human being. “One of your vagrants came to report just now.”

  Rafe sighed in relief and satisfaction and avoided the urge to leap to his feet. “Excellent, I could use the distraction.”

  Rogue didn’t move, but his mouth twitched, by some miracle, and Rafe stopped himself.

  He sighed heavily. “You took the report already, didn’t you?”

  “I would never dream of interrupting your analysis,” his friend replied with a mockingly respectful dip of his head. “I thought it my duty to see to the matter myself.”

  Rafe glared at him. “You must be exhausted after using so many words at one time. Have a lie down, why don’t you?”

  Rogue snorted and folded his arms, leaning more fully against his post. “If you would shut up for half a moment, you might find you are interested in what she had to say.”

  Sinking down into his chair, Rafe narrowed his eyes. “She? It was one of my girls?”

  “It was.”

  “Which?”

  “Daisy.”

  Rafe grinned and leaned back in his chair. “Daisy dearest. I hope you were kind to her, Rogue. She’s only seven.”

  The almost smile flicked again. “Yes, so she told me. Repeatedly.” He exhaled rather noisily. “And she kept clicking her tongue against those crooked teeth of hers.”

  That drew a chuckle from him and he shook his head. “You can’t blame the child for her teeth. Besides, she’s adorable, under all that dirt.”

  Rogue did not respond, which said mountains, and Rafe sat bolt upright.

  “Good lord, you have no snide rebuttal,” he gasped with a wild grin.

  Rogue’s pale eyes widened slightly.

  “You like the child!” Rafe crowed, pointing a finger at him. “If you didn’t, you would have said something callous and cynical, and I would have thought nothing of it, but you have nothing to say! You like Daisy!”

  Rogue muttered something no doubt very foul under his breath, as the man did have a gift with profanity, and shoved off of the wall. “Well, let me know when you’re going to read the banns for me, I’ll make sure to say nothing then as well.”

  Rafe barked a laugh and waved a hand. “All right, I’m done, come back, come back.”

  Rogue sniffed and moved to the desk. “Impudent whelp. If you were still the youngest of us, I’d toss you out on your arse.”

  Rafe shrugged, still smiling. “Yes, well, feel free to wallop on Rook, then. He could use it, smarmy bloke.”

  They both fell silent at the mention of their newest colleague, who had been with them almost a year, and still had not managed to fill the void Trace had left. He was the best of any of the others that had been put forth by the Foreign Office, but it was not the same. The man had all the potential in the world, and was doing rather well, impressively at times, but…

  “Daisy says her mark is having a meeting,” Rogue said suddenly, his voice gruff as if he had been thinking along the same lines. “A maid in the house was overheard saying something about the master having gained a significant amount of money and having another meeting with some investors about it. Men of some importance, and when he returns from France…” He drew the silence out with emphasis, widening his eyes as if Rafe were dim-witted, “he would arrange matters.”

  Rafe gnawed on his lip for a moment. “Interesting…” He suddenly looked back at the files atop his desk and rifled through several, pulling out the specific file he needed quickly. “Yes, that is interesting. He should be drowning in debt, not gaining anything. Investitures middling…” He thought for a moment, then glanced back up. “When is he due back, did the child say?”

  Rogue’s expression was slightly aghast. “How did you… how did you know where that file was?”

  He snorted and closed the file, tossing it back onto the desk. “Just because you don’t understand my system does not mean I am also ignorant. When is the dirty cheat due back?”

  “Next week. He’s having a ball…” A ghost of a true smile appeared, and it alarmed Rafe slightly.

  “Why do you look like that?” he asked warily, glancing out of the filthy window near him. “It’s only a ball, I don’t mind those.”

  “It’s a very special occasion,” Rogue replied, his mouth curving. “Select members of Society only. And he’s promised his sister that her daughters may have full run of the bachelors in attendance, and invitation to the men of their choosing.”

  Horrified, Rafe returned his head to his desk with a moan of despair, tugging at his limp and faded cravat. “Do you think that Lord Marlowe would make that very exclusive list?” he asked aloud, squeezing his eyes shut against the vain hope of denial.

  “I think Lord Marlowe already has,” came the dry response.

  He peered up at him suspiciously. “How do you know?”

  Rogue rolled his eyes and went to the sideboard to pour himself a drink. “If you ever went to your own lodgings, Gent, you would know such things for yourself.”

  Rafe frowned and gestured for Rogue to pour hi
m a glass as well. “Why do you know the workings of my house?”

  The sardonic look he received answered his own question.

  “Ah,” he said knowingly with a nod. “Davis.”

  “For a man in his position, with a master in his position,” Rogue muttered with a shake of his head, “that butler is not very good at his job. A servant is meant to keep his master’s secrets, not spread them about for gossip.”

  Rafe smiled swiftly. “Davis keeps secrets better than anyone. Opinions, not so much. And you terrify him. I’m surprised he didn’t bear his soul in confession.”

  Rogue shuddered visibly as he approached. “Lucky for me, I never venture to your house officially.”

  “Yes, I’d hate for you to set the place awry with all your doom and gloom.”

  Rogue stopped a few feet from him, holding his drink out of reach and raising a brow.

  Rafe sighed and rolled his eyes. “Put off your affront and give that here. I need it to get through these damned financials, and now, apparently, a husband hunt.”

  They both shuddered at that and Rogue handed over the drink. “Fair enough.” He glanced down at the stacks. “How is it going? Finding anything?”

  Rafe sipped cautiously, having never been a truly strong drinker. “I’ve narrowed the list down to a dozen, but it’s not enough. I know at least half of the faction’s money is coming from England, and most of that from fairly high up. Daisy’s mark is a chief suspect, but as for the rest…” He shrugged and exhaled in frustration. “The trouble is most of this looks legitimate. I have a sense they may not be, but I can’t prove anything.” He glanced over at his colleague with a wince. “Financials and mathematics are not my strong suit. I was always more of a literature man.”

  Rogue made an irritated noise and muttered something suspiciously like “You would,” under his breath. But his expression remained impassive, and he thought for a moment. “I know a man…” he said slowly.

  “No,” Rafe said at once, shaking his head. “None of your seedy gambling associates. I’ll not let them run these through their grubby fingers.”

  Rogue’s thick brows snapped down. “Says the man who gets his information from gypsies, pickpockets, urchins, and whores.”

  “Actresses,” Rafe clarified with a faint finger in the air. “Tilda would be most put out to be reduced to such a level, considering all the effort she puts into those girls.”

  Rogue raised his hands in mock surrender. “Far be it from me to offend Mistress Tilda.”

  Rafe grinned slowly. “She would tear you limb from limb, my friend. And she’s a most useful contact. Just ask Trick or Tumbler. Or Thistle.”

  “Really?” Rogue asked, sounding truly surprised, and no wonder, for the Foreign Office’s deep-seated operatives rarely used any of their connections if they could help it.

  He shrugged and tried for a nonchalant air, but couldn’t hide the pride. “Unconfirmed, but…”

  “Huh.” Rogue sat back, a bit bemused. Then suddenly it was gone. “At any rate, I didn’t mean to pass it off to one of my gamblers. I do have other connections, you know. Respectable ones.”

  Rafe tilted his head in concern. “And they know you personally? Do they know what that could do to their reputations?” He laughed at his own jest, mirth bubbling up within him.

  “I mean to take it to Coin, you damned toff.” He quirked a brow tauntingly when Rafe stopped chuckling at the suggestion. “Is that proper enough for you? Or is your pride too much to ask the man for his aid?”

  “I forgot all about Coin,” he breathed. He grinned in relief. “Please, take them to him. He likes you more than me.”

  “That’s because I let him win when we play,” Rogue said with a light shrug.

  “You never let me win,” Rafe pointed out without the indignation he ought to have had.

  Rogue smiled darkly. “That is because you are a terrible card player, and your ego needs some deflating.” He bowed politely, then ambled out of the room.

  Rafe rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair, his eyes aimlessly tracing the faded moldings on the ceiling. Coin would help, the rascally old codger. He’d make Rafe look like an idiot with whatever he missed, but not on any official reports. He might be high-handed in person, but he was the consummate professional in all else.

  And he was shockingly good at his job.

  What exactly that job was, Rafe wasn’t exactly sure. Come to think of it, he didn’t think anyone knew for certain.

  Such was the mystery of Coin.

  He spent a few minutes organizing the files he wanted examined most, and then pulled out the aged pocket watch in his weskit pocket.

  It was Tuesday. She tended to shop on Tuesdays, in Bond Street, mostly. But she’d likely be finished by now, and on her way back to her home with that mother of hers.

  She was a very proper sort of woman, and had no doubt once been a beauty, but she could not hold a candle to what her daughter was, and would be for eternity.

  He couldn’t leave the office to seek her out. Cap’s warning rang in his head, and he was fairly certain his own people were being set to tail him.

  He needed a reason.

  A good one.

  Something that…

  A slow, smirking grin suddenly lit his features, and he rose from his chair. “Foster!” he bellowed.

  “Sir?” came the reply from whatever his name was in the front.

  “Send a message to my valet. Tell him we’ve a ball in two weeks, and an impression to make.”

  Swift footsteps came down the hall and the thin man looked rather unimpressed. “I’m not your errand boy, Gent.”

  “I know that, Vincent,” he replied with a cheeky grin as he moved passed him. “But considering you do work here, you ought to do something to earn your keep.”

  “What, besides letting your costumes gather dust over my head?” came the answer as he followed.

  “Keeper of the costumes,” Rafe mused thoughtfully. “I like that. I’ll find a name that sticks for you yet.” He pulled his brown cap from the hook and perched it jauntily back, rolling his sleeves.

  “I could tell you my real name,” he said, folding his arms. “That makes it quite simple.”

  Rafe frowned at him as he moved to the door. “No names, Paul. We have rules.”

  “And those say you’re not supposed to go out until you’re done.”

  Rafe turned back, glowering. “Don’t make me name you Snitch,” he growled as he opened the door.

  “And where are you going?” the snitch asked in hushed tones, given the open door.

  Rafe turned and tipped his cap even more. “Tanks for the wages, guvnor,” he called in his street Cockney. “I’ll jus’ be stoppin’ into the market for a new coat, jus’ like ye said!”

  And with a boyish skip and a whistle, the Gent was back on the streets, wondering if it might be a ten second day after all.

  Chapter Three

  “For the husband hunt this is supposed to be, there are a shocking number of women here.”

  Margaret bit back a smile behind her fan, which was no trick of fashion for once, as the heat in the room was truly abominable. “There’s a shocking number of everyone here,” she replied. “I didn’t think Lady Poole knew this many people.”

  The dark-haired beauty that was Rosalind Arden snorted softly and fidgeted with the green ribbon at her waist. “She doesn’t. But as she’s growing desperate to get the Poole pack married off, they invited everyone in London worth any sort of salt.”

  Margaret exchanged a quick, but surprised nod of acknowledgement to Lord and Lady Rothchild as the stunning couple passed by, wondering why the man who was one of the most popular dignitaries in Europe would have opted to come to an evening like this. She’d met him and his wife on several occasions on the Continent, and she knew his wife was certainly above the present company.

  Lord Rothchild would probably enjoy this spectacle. He was full of good humor, as she recalled.


  An overly exuberant dancer nearly crashed into Margaret and she backed up hastily, brushing off her cream muslin with a sigh. “Yes, and as the Season hasn’t officially begun, this is the first chance to do anything of amusement. Who will be this Season’s splash, hmm?”

  “Why not you, Margaret?” Rosalind asked with a nudge. “Your fortune is admirable to the extreme, and you’re quite pretty. Men should be falling over themselves to get to you.”

  Margaret shook her head. “See how they fall,” she murmured, gesturing faintly to the lack of attendants. She glanced over at the taller girl, who was stunning and regal in appearance and nature, and whose lack of suitors was truly the most mysterious thing.

  She followed Rosalind’s gaze and saw where it was fixed, then smiled to herself.

  Perhaps not so mysterious.

  She cleared her throat a little. “What of you, Rosalind? I’ve heard some rather interesting things about a certain former captain of the Navy.”

  Rosalind’s fan moved a bit more rapidly. “Will has no claim on me, and has not made any indication he wishes to.”

  Margaret grinned. “Oh, it’s Will, now, is it?”

  The fan snapped shut and a pair of dark eyes swung to hers. “Margaret Easton, spit out whatever ridiculous thought is swirling in your head, I’ve no patience for teasing.”

  Margaret shrugged one shoulder as daintily as she could. “Nothing at all, my dear. I only find it curious that this winter you couldn’t stand him, and yet now he is Will.”

  Rosalind glowered and looked away. “Our families have become acquainted. My sister is close with the Blackmoors and they are Riverton cousins. Will and I took it upon ourselves to waltz improperly as a distraction last Season, and now everyone thinks there is an attachment.”

  “And what does Captain Riverton say?” Margaret asked, knowing the story already, having seen it for herself.

  Rosalind’s jaw tightened. “Nothing. The fool says nothing but expects the rest of us to know what he wants and what he thinks, and blasts the whole world if he doesn’t get it.”

  Margaret raised a curious brow. “Why do you care what Captain Riverton wants and thinks and gets?”