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

by Rebecca Connolly

  No, she thought viciously. She’d had enough of that life, and she was set on England.

  England was home.

  “Margaret, will you take a turn about the room with me?” Helen asked from her side, having somehow approached her without Margaret noticing.

  Miss Ritson stiffened beside her, but said nothing.

  “I know that Lady Raeburn wishes to make your acquaintance,” Helen continued, her voice as smooth as silk, as polite as was proper. “And once you meet her, I believe you will find several other people who will wish to do the same.”

  Margaret glanced up at her cousin, the very picture of an English miss, thin and fair and every feature perfectly situated. Miss Ritson ought to have hated her, but as the Daltons were not as wealthy as the Eastons, she was no competition. Apparently.

  Miss Ritson nudged Margaret hard. “Go, Miss Easton,” she urged, her eyes alight. “Your cousin is being very kind, and very astute. Go and meet those who can give you fairer prospects than your own dismal situation.”

  “Yes, Miss Ritson.” Margaret rose as gracefully as she could and linked arms with her cousin, who led her away serenely.

  “Lord, Margaret,” Helen murmured when they were away, losing the polite air and speaking more like herself. “What has Rickety done to you?”

  Margaret allowed herself to sigh and avoided looking behind her. “I cannot breathe,” she replied in a low voice. “Everything is wrong, and if she sets my corsets any tighter…”

  “She’s making you wear corsets?” Helen interrupted quickly, eyes wide.

  Margaret nodded morosely. “And restricting my food, and forcing me to walk Hyde Park every morning and evening… I had not thought myself quite so beyond a fashionable figure, but it seems to be the case.”

  Helen hissed between her teeth and pulled Margaret closer. “You are not even plump, darling. And even if you were, what is so very wrong with that? For heaven’s sake, it is as though she thinks you the worst possible marriage candidate in London, which I know for a fact you are not.”

  Margaret sniffed in derision and nodded at Mrs. Granger, who smiled kindly. “Do you? How?”

  Helen smiled and inclined her head towards a small gathering of men that were watching them. “The attention, dear. They aren’t watching me, they know better. That is for you.”

  She glanced over and found one of them smiling at her. Encouraged, she allowed herself to smile in return, which made his smile grow.

  “I’ll never be able to make it over there,” she whispered to Helen. “Miss Ritson would never…”

  “Miss Ritson can eat my slippers,” Helen snapped. “We’re going to meet Lady Raeburn and Rosalind will speak with Captain Riverton, who will bring them over, it’s all arranged. It is time you met some real prospects and not their portly uncles.”

  Margaret snorted a laugh and felt the tension leave her. Helen could always set her to rights, and whatever time she could spend away from Miss Ritson would be a blessing.

  Rosalind swept to Helen’s other side, knowing from experience that if she was too familiar with Margaret, Miss Ritson would intervene.

  Truly, things were getting ridiculous.

  Lady Raeburn was surrounded by admirers, as usual, including their hostess, and they all looked at the trio as they approached.

  “Lady Raeburn,” Helen began with a warm smile, “may I introduce my cousin, Miss Easton? Margaret, this is Lady Raeburn.”

  “A pleasure, my lady,” Margaret said with a deep curtsey.

  Lady Raeburn’s painted lips quirked and she inclined her head regally. “Charming, Miss Easton. What a lovely picture you make. Tell me, do you really hunt for a husband just to keep yourself in England while your parents try for Europe?”

  Someone nearby gasped, and Margaret felt her cheeks flush, but something within her prompted her to stare boldly back at this terrifying woman. “Yes, my lady,” she answered as calmly as she could.

  Lady Raeburn shook her head, the decorative beads of her turban clapping against the fabric. “European men make excellent lovers, but abysmal husbands. I should know, I’ve had my share of both.”

  Someone coughed in surprise, but Margaret found herself smiling in spite of herself. “So what would you suggest, my lady?”

  Lady Raeburn’s eyes twinkled as she took in Margaret on the whole. “Find a British husband who can play the European lover,” she finally replied, smiling slyly. “Best of both worlds, and nobody is shocked by it.”

  Margaret nodded sagely, fighting the urge to laugh. “I shall take that into advisement, my lady. Have you any suggestions for going about that?”

  Now the company about them were beginning to warm to it, laughing softly and grinning at the exchange, but none so broadly as Lady Raeburn herself.

  “Oh, my dear child,” Lady Raeburn said as she smiled, “have I ever.” She quirked her fingers and Captain Riverton, with the three men watching from before, sprang over to them, as well as a few others.

  Feeling as though she had sold her soul somehow, Margaret greeted them all as they were introduced and smiled prettily, hoping no one would notice it was forced.

  A British husband who could play the European lover. Well, there was one man she could picture in that role, but it was hardly suitable.

  She had seen him every day, but had not been permitted to stare. Miss Ritson was like a hawk, and she’d never even had a five second moment with him, let alone ten. But she saw him, and fervently wished he would see her. She knew that if they could have their usual moment, he would see her distress and save her somehow. She knew that as well as she drew breath. He would save her, regardless of whether she could have him, and she could find a way to stay in England that satisfied her.

  But if he never saw what was in her eyes, he couldn’t know.

  He couldn’t save her.

  How could a stranger, no matter how handsome, mean so much to her? She was a sensible girl, despite her imagination, and there was no reason for her to think him anything but a scoundrel and a roué.

  Suddenly neither of those things seemed so much of a detriment.

  Whoever he was, whatever he was, she missed him. She didn’t even know him and she missed him. She still saw him everywhere and she missed him.

  Her life was changing far too rapidly for her taste, and he was all that she could hold onto. He kept her steady, and despite the new reserve and hauteur forced on her by her chaperone, she would never be fully changed, not while the image of him was within her heart.

  It was not good for her to think of him, she knew that, but her situation was so dismal she had to hold onto something. Her parents’ letters held nothing but praise for Miss Ritson, which meant that her letters were not understood. Or perhaps they were misdirected. Whichever it was, she was running out of time and options, and her wistful imaginations, though delightful, were making things harder to accept. He could not be the bright shining hope of her life, even if he were as glorious in person as she imagined. However unlikely that was. He was sure to disappoint, if she ever did know him.

  She smiled at the men around her, and prayed that one of them might be the one to save her, and make her forget him. She wanted so desperately to forget him, to be rid of him, to pretend they had never made eye contact at all. She would have been so much happier in ignorance.

  But she doubted that was possible.

  More than that, she knew she was lying.

  Chapter Six

  Two weeks of investigation, and Rafe was convinced that Sir Vincent Castleton had been born out of hell itself.

  That may have been a bit drastic, but he had very little to recommend him.

  “Focusing on him so much is going to detract from the attention you ought to give to the rest,” Rogue reminded him as they conversed on the subject yet again.

  Rafe glared at him as he made further notes in the margins of his most recent reports. “The others are minor characters. Grimshaw is pulling strings, Viskin is full of hot air,
but Castleton is the one with a plan. You should have heard Hal’s stories.”

  Rogue remained unconvinced. “Hal doesn’t know him that well. She’s a gossiping child.”

  “She’s twenty-four.”

  “When she knew Castleton, she was a child,” Rogue corrected with a roll of his eyes.

  “Most of what I’ve learned is gossip,” Rafe replied, sitting back. “Most of what I gather is gossip, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”

  Rogue acknowledged that with a nod. “Still, proceed with caution.”

  “Always do.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  Rafe smiled tightly. “No, I don’t. But you’ve seen the evidence, Rogue. Surely you see the patterns.”

  “Of course I see the patterns, I am not an infant.” Rogue’s pale eyes flicked to the papers. “He is involved, a key player, and by all accounts, the scum of the earth. I see that. All I am saying is there may be more here, so don’t fixate.”

  Despite the inclination to bristle, Rafe saw the wisdom in that. He was aggravated at his inability to nail anything down, that everything seemed to be slipping through his fingers here, and with some plot in the works, that made him uneasy. Eagle wanted updates as fast as he could get them, which meant Cap was checking in more than usual, which meant they were all on their toes.

  Even Rook had been pulled to help, and his talent for observation and memory had proven invaluable, despite his distracting persona.

  Rafe’s network was spread as thin as it had ever been, but all of the major suspects were covered, as well as some of his usual marks.

  He was doing everything he could.

  It never felt like enough.

  His valet was starting to fret about his attire, mostly because Rafe no longer cared. Rogers had always taken pride in the variety of ensembles he sent Rafe out in, whether high standard or low, and when Rafe had begun returning everything in poor, tattered, worn conditions, Rogers nearly wept in distress.

  Rafe didn’t mean to upset him, he had simply been careless and was exhausted beyond measure. Last week he had only been home twice and only one of those times had involved him sleeping in his own bed.

  Davis was used to expecting him randomly, if ever, but managed the household the same. The cook, whatever her name was, didn’t even know him, and Callie, the maid he’d hired last year, was practically a housekeeper in her efficiency and orderliness, and never so much as batted an eye when he was at home. It made absolutely no difference to her, though her respect was impeccable and her actions prompt.

  He’d have to keep an eye on that one. She’d make an excellent operative herself if she were half as intelligent as she appeared.

  But his home had little meaning at the moment.

  “What is it?” Rogue murmured, breaking his reverie.

  Rafe looked over at him, suddenly fatigued. “What is what?”

  Rogue simply waited, staring at him.

  Rafe craned his neck, reluctant to let his friend in on his troubles, though they were practically brothers. Between this mess of Napoleonic supporters and his frustration over Margaret, he was a mass of quivering uncertainty, and for someone who had ever been steady in his life, it was worrisome.

  Worrisome? It was terrifying!

  He barely recognized himself anymore.

  “For heaven’s sake, do I need to go get Samuels to get you a drink?” Rogue barked.

  Rafe raised a brow. “Who?”

  “The clerk, you tiresome wretch. The one who answers to whatever we call him.”

  Rafe grunted and looked away. “Right. No, better not drink today.”

  There was a knock at the front door and they stilled, looking at the hallway. Very few people came to see them here, and if they did, it was only for reports. The average person would have no cause to seek them out. If they did, it was because someone knew something, and that was dangerous.

  Rafe had to think hard to remember what the cover of their office even was. Investigators? Something like that. Cheaper than Bow Street and less official. Less formal. And less honorable, to boot.

  But no one had tried for that yet, so they had no practice.

  Did Taylor up front know that?

  The unspoken questions were answered when Rook himself came into the room, looking like the dandy that he was, and very much out of place in their plain little office.

  His dark hair fell over one green eye as he paused to look at them both, raising the one brow they could see. “Is there a problem, gentlemen?”

  Rogue snorted and settled further into his seat. “Gent has several problems, but apparently cannot find words for them.”

  Rook looked at him in surprise, then slowly grinned the grin that he’d long ago learned to mistrust. “Indeed? Well…” He immediately dropped into the available chair without any of the grace someone dressed as finely as he should have employed and sobered. “I am all ears.”

  Rafe glared at them both, wishing there was someone here on his side.

  Rook fought another smile as long as he could, then let it flash briefly across his face before turning to Rogue. “Part of the problem, I am sure, lies with his poor Miss Easton.”

  Rafe stiffened in his seat and his hands tightened into fists.

  “Indeed?” Rogue said, crossing his legs and putting a finger to his lips. “You may be right. Any insight, Rook?”

  Rook nodded, matching Rogue’s pose. “A bit. I am quite the name in Society, you know. I have cultivated one very carefully. And Miss Easton is doing the same.”

  “Is she?”

  “She is indeed.”

  Rafe was going to kill them both if they did not stop.

  “What sort of name is she cultivating?”

  “Oh, she is a husband hunter. Quite a shame, to be sure, as no one will have her.”

  “No one? Why not?”

  “No one knows, so no one dares. She’s very pretty, scandalously wealthy, and would certainly warm a fellow’s bed right, but for some reason…”

  “Enough!” Rafe snapped, banging his fist on the desk. “Enough!”

  His colleagues looked surprised at him, no hint of amusement in either of their gazes.

  Rook blinked, then looked over at Rogue. “I didn’t expect that.”

  Rogue never took his eyes off of Rafe. “Nor did I. A bit much, in my opinion.”

  “Shut it,” Rafe grumbled, sinking back into his chair and rubbing his hands over his eyes.

  “Gladly, once you tell me what this is about,” Rogue replied, folding his arms.

  Rafe glanced at Rook, who shrugged. “I am here to help, believe it or not, and to report in on your marks, when you’re of a mind.”

  He flicked his gaze between both of them, and sensed this was not a battle worth fighting. “Very well,” he grumbled, rubbing at his brow, “since I know the pair of you won’t leave me in peace until I tell you all.”

  And so he told them what he didn’t dare put on paper, the inability to tie anything about the faction supporters down, seeing Castleton as a break in the struggle, but not knowing how to use him, the feeling that something was missing, the nagging sense of being one step behind…

  They offered advice and counsel, helped him think through some of the more complicated matters that had been uncovered in the last several weeks, and shared what their own investigations had found. Ultimately, they had no answers for him, but he had not thought they would.

  It was enough that they took his concerns seriously and could compare notes.

  Whatever they were on the brink of, at least he was not alone in this.

  “I don’t want to miss anything,” he said with a groan, grinding his hands into his eyes. “That’s what cost us…”

  “Trace,” Rogue finished harshly. “I know.”

  Rafe glanced up and the two shared a look. Trace had died because somewhere, somehow, they had missed something, some connection they failed to make, some danger they had not seen. Nothing had been quite so comp
licated since then, but this felt eerily similar, and they could not lose another one of their group.

  “I’ll sniff around,” Rook said, rising from the chair with a groan. “I doubt I’ll be invited into the circle, but at least I can be annoyingly present. It’s amazing what people say when they think you’re not listening.”

  Rafe smiled, knowing from experience that was true. “I thought you were supposed to be a rake, not a peacock.”

  Rook gave him an utterly superior glare. “I am the only man on earth that can be both, Gent. You stick to avoiding attention and let me collect it.”

  “Gladly,” he replied, waving him off with a laugh.

  When he was gone, Rogue looked back at him knowingly. “You said nothing of Miss Easton.”

  “That is because I have nothing to say,” Rafe informed him. “Unfortunately.”

  “Driving you to your wit’s end?”

  “Yes.”

  Rogue muttered something under his breath, then shifted in his chair. “How are the Roma? Anything useful there?”

  Relieved at the change in topic, Rafe unfolded his experiences of late with the tribe, good and bad, and let his mind wander into other realms than the ones that occupied his mind too often these days.

  “I don’t know this shop,” Margaret said for what had to be the fifth time this morning, confused as to why they were looking at a modiste shop on this side of London instead of in Bond Street, where they usually went. She’d lost track of the directions they had taken, but there were no familiar sights here, nor familiar faces. She had no idea where they were, but she did not like the looks of it.

  “And that shows how unfortunate your experiences are,” Miss Ritson replied, her tone crisp and final.

  Margaret rolled her eyes behind her chaperone’s back and followed into the dimly lit shop, wondering why a modiste would choose to keep the light so low. One could hardly get a fair estimate of the fabric if it could not be adequately seen.

  Not that it mattered, as Margaret highly doubted her opinion would be consulted at all. They were finally having a proper session with someone who apparently could save her disastrous fashion sense, and all of this would undoubtedly lead her to finding a man in England to marry. Or simply be a waste of her parents’ money and make Margaret feel ill about herself.