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

by Rebecca Connolly

  He pushed into the office when he arrived and tossed his cap at Gordon, who caught it and hung it on the wall automatically.

  Rogue and Kem met him in the hall, both wearing serious expressions.

  “What is it?” he demanded. “What’s wrong?”

  Kem shook his head slowly. “I am so sorry, Gent. I didn’t know.”

  “Know what?” He was close to bellowing, but he was beyond caring.

  “In here,” Rogue ordered, gesturing with his head towards the empty office.

  Rafe and Kem followed, and only when the door was closed did Kem look at Rafe again.

  “Tell me,” Rafe said darkly. “Tell me everything.”

  “Pov has been in contact with his brothers,” Kem told him. “They communicate frequently, despite my dictates. He’s been trying to convince them to come with him. He knows Margaret was in the camp, and that you are her protector.”

  Rafe swore and sank into a chair, putting his head into his hands.

  “His brothers started to get suspicious when he wanted details of the girl,” Kem went on, “and they brought their concerns to me. They liked Margaret and you know they respect you greatly. They have no interest in joining him, and are keeping others from doing so.”

  Rafe didn’t respond to that. He rubbed his hands over his face and looked up. “What is Pov doing?”

  Kem looked disgruntled, and folded his massive arms. “He works for a peer in London. I don’t know who. It is not respectable work, that much I do know. He will do whatever is requested for an impressive sum of money, and it seems his employer has enough to keep him on.”

  “I know who it is,” Rafe muttered darkly, “and I know what sort of a man he is.”

  “Then perhaps you would like to know that the man in question is asking more unusual things of Pov?” Kem suggested, his tone matching Rafe’s. “Like procuring a carriage without windows and a driver to be on standby? Or that Pov has been examining Margaret’s house and layout?”

  The room went deathly still, and Rafe could only blink.

  “Or that your urchin has seen Pov talking with the bat?” Rogue added in a low voice. “And another report came in about him talking with the bat’s footmen?”

  Rafe looked at Rogue, who leaned against the desk, watching him.

  “Well?” Rogue said quietly. “What do we do about this?”

  “He’s going after her,” Rafe said quietly. “That’s what this is. The bat is in on it, if not working for him, and all of this is to get him Margaret.”

  “Why?” Rogue asked bluntly. “What does she have to offer?”

  Kem growled darkly and Rafe held up a hand. “He’s all right, he likes Margaret a great deal.”

  “Doesn’t sound like it,” Kem snarled.

  Rogue looked mildly surprised. “You too?” He looked at Rafe in exasperation. “She’s won over everyone, except for London Society. How did you manage to fall for the one woman in the world who actually suits your life?”

  Rafe managed a smile. “I am that good.” He pressed his hands against his temples. “Why Margaret? He doesn’t even need to marry, and he’s never had an inclination before. Of all the women in London, why…?” Realization dawned and he dropped his hands, eyes widening. “It’s all about the money.”

  “What?” Rogue asked, having missed his muttering.

  Rafe got to his feet, pacing the room. “It’s money. He said at the beginning that he had a plan, something that would bring in unending profits, or some such. A contract, and pieces in place. Don’t you see? They need money to fund the operations, and we couldn’t figure out where it was going to come from. He doesn’t have impressive financial ties, not like the others, and we could prove theirs. He’s taking Margaret’s money.”

  Rogue whistled low. “Is it a lot?”

  Rafe nodded quickly. “She has her own inheritance, plus whatever her aunt has coming. She’s an heiress, and if anybody knew just how much she is worth, she would not be nearly so ignored.” He paced faster, his mind whirling. “He doesn’t need to marry, he doesn’t care about Margaret, he just needs the money. Her parents are gone, which makes it easy to compromise her, and…” He stopped and whirled to Rogue, who stared at him wide-eyed. “The chaperone is in on it, and he’d be able to compromise her without any resistance there. And the bat is just cruel enough to make sure it is a public spectacle with no recourse available but marriage.”

  Rogue moved quickly out of the room and barked something at Harrison that he couldn’t make out.

  Kem stared at Rafe without expression, then exhaled slowly. “I am sorry, Gent, for what Pov has done, and the part he plays.”

  Rafe shook his head and came over to shake Kem’s hand. “No apologies needed, old friend. You are not responsible for Pov. Every man must make his own path.”

  “Well, if you see him again, feel free to kill him. Te malavel les i menkiva.” Kem spat on the floor, shaking his head.

  May the malignant disease waste him. Rafe coughed a surprised laugh at the harsh insult, and allowed Kem to clamp him on the shoulder, then slip from the building without any fuss.

  Rafe rather hoped a malignant disease would waste Pov. That would solve many problems. On the other hand, without Pov trying to recruit his brothers, they wouldn’t have received this information, and now he thought he might be able to make a move. Now he could act.

  Now he could save Margaret.

  But first…

  He jotted off a note on a slip of paper, folded it, and left the now empty office.

  Out in the street, he whistled, and one of his little tykes, Frank, appeared.

  He gave the sandy-haired boy a serious look. “Take this to Helen Dalton, tell her Tibby will vouch for it, and wait for a response.”

  Frank nodded, took the note, and dashed off.

  Rafe stared after him for a long moment, then sighed softly. “Hold on, pet. Hold on.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Three days of no callers, not even Sir Vincent, and no reprieve from her boredom, and Margaret was beginning to go mad.

  The only thing that had brightened her time was that Helen had come to stay with her for a time. They were not to share a room, but she was permitted to spend time out of her room to see her. She had arrived that morning under strict instructions that Margaret was practically disturbed, not herself, and for her own protection, she was confined to her room most of the time.

  Well, if that was how one wanted to describe being prisoner in one’s own room and being locked in on a regular basis, so be it.

  Helen had appeared full of concern, and the moment she had been let in Margaret’s room she’d embraced her and cried in such a dramatic display that Margaret had been almost convinced that it was Helen that was disturbed.

  Then the door had closed and Helen’s tears had miraculously vanished.

  “Lord, that took a lot of work,” she’d groaned, flinging off her bonnet and cloak. “I thought Ritson might actually toss me out when I showed up.”

  Margaret had hugged her cousin again, no longer in danger of being collapsed on by a fountain of tears. “How did you manage it?”

  Helen had pulled back and given her a look. “Didn’t you wonder why after such a party no one had come to see you?”

  “Well, yes, actually,” Margaret had said, sinking onto her tidy bed.

  Helen went to the bed and sprawled on it in a very unladylike fashion. “They were all told that you were very ill. The Whitlocks sent a physician over, but he was told you’d already seen one. Tibby tried everything, but she could not get through. Marianne Gerrard was going mad with worry, fearing you’d actually been killed or something.” Helen had rolled her eyes for effect.

  Margaret had snorted and sat back on her elbows. “How is Rosalind?”

  “Beside herself. She knows there is no way that Ritson would let her anywhere near you even if you were well.” She shrugged a shoulder nonchalantly. “I think Will is helping her through it.” She smile
d at Margaret deviously. “When all of this is over, they might have you to thank for getting Rosalind to fall for him.”

  That made Margaret laugh, and she felt lighter than she had in ages for it. “But how did you get in here today, Helen? I haven’t even seen Ritson in days, she won’t come up here.”

  Helen smirked, her cobalt eyes twinkling. “Well, when I heard that my beloved cousin was so very unwell for the third day in a row, and even her supposed betrothed was not permitted to see her, despite his ardent attentions…”

  “My what?” Margaret interrupted, rolling onto her side.

  “Betrothed. You’re going to marry Sir Vincent as soon as your parents’ permission is secured.” Helen mimicked retching and shuddered. “When I imagine that man taking his husbandly rights…”

  “Why would you do that?” Margaret shrieked, feeling sick to her stomach in truth.

  Helen gave her a hard look. “He is very vocal in his praises of your person. Disturbingly so.”

  Margaret flung an arm over her eyes and lay back on the bed. “Oh, lord…”

  “Anyway, I showed up on the doorstep today with my eyes filled with tears and begged to stay with my poor cousin and tend to her in her hour of need.” Helen had nestled closer to Margaret and sighed. “Ritson couldn’t refuse me. Particularly when I barged my way in and only got more hysterical.” She’d reached down and taken Margaret’s hand. “I don’t know what is going to happen, Margaret, but I am here with you now, and I’m not going anywhere.”

  Even now, hours later, Helen’s fierce words brought tears to Margaret’s eyes. She knew that there was not much that Helen could do in truth, but knowing she was here brought a measure of comfort.

  She knew she was beyond fortunate that Sir Vincent had not made an appearance yet, but it was only a matter of time. No doubt he was laying a foundation of ardency to their relationship so that when he truly did come to compromise her, it would not paint him in such a villainous light. And with her prim and proper chaperone as his ally, he would have all the access to her that he needed.

  Where were her parents, and how could they go this long without hearing from her and not knowing something was wrong?

  And what about Rafe? Had he left her to her fate? Or was he finding a way to fix all of this?

  A low rumbling of thunder met her ears and she looked over at the window, hearing the rain beginning to patter on the glass lightly.

  She opened the window a little, breathing in the fresh air of the storm, feeling the rain on her face. Each drop on her cheeks reminded her of Rafe, how he had imagined her out in the rain and letting it fall upon her face and hair, tracing each and every feature. She exhaled shakily, the sudden warmth filling her body contrasting sharply with the cold raindrops on her cheeks.

  Someday, she would watch a storm roll in with his arms around her, pressed against his warm, strong chest, inhaling his scent. He would press feather-light kisses upon her skin, murmuring words of love and tenderness that would fill her soul with wanting, and then, just when she couldn’t bear it, he would pull her out into the rain and dance with her, just as they had that night around the fire.

  Margaret moaned softly with longing for that vision, and opened her eyes to the night sky.

  A flash of lightning lit the world around her and she looked down, then gasped.

  A man in dark clothing was sneaking around the side of her house, treading with familiarity and ease. She covered her mouth to keep from making too much noise, but gasped again when he found the side door and opened it, slipping into the house without a single creak or misstep.

  Someone had left the door open for him, and he knew the layout of the house well enough to know where it was.

  And now he was inside. With her. And Helen.

  Margaret didn’t hesitate. She screamed for help as loud as she could out of the window, her cries getting lost in the sounds of the storm. She raced to her bedroom door and pounded on it. “Horace! Martin! Somebody, help!”

  Her guards, who had always responded to her before, even if it was not an answer she had wanted, were silent.

  Or gone.

  Margaret clapped her hands over her eyes, whimpering loudly as panic and fear warred within her. She turned to the window once more and opened it more widely. “Help!” she shrieked as loudly as she could. “Help! Help, oh somebody, help!”

  “Margaret?”

  She gasped and looked down to find Rafe jogging into view, the shadows of the night and of his stubble giving him a dark, mysterious look. He was damp with rain, in dirty clothing, and he was the most glorious sight she had ever seen.

  “Rafe,” she choked out, her throat clogging with emotion. Her eyes burned and she covered her mouth.

  “What is it?” he called, his voice barely audible above the rain. “What’s wrong? Are you all right?”

  She shook her head quickly. “There’s a man!”

  He stiffened. “Where?” he asked, his voice suddenly harsh.

  “In the house! He entered only a few minutes ago, and something is terribly wrong!”

  Rafe stepped closer to the house, and even from her place, she could see the firm set of his jaw. “Did he break in?”

  She shook her head frantically. “No! He opened the door and walked right in! Rafe, there are only maids in this house, hardly any men, and my cousin!”

  “I’m coming up!”

  “No, don’t! The door is locked from the outside, and it will take too much time to break it down!”

  He scowled, putting his hands on his hips. “How else do I get in, then?”

  She leaned out and pointed to the door. “The side door. It is how he entered, so it ought to be open still. Take the corridor to the right. It looks small and poorly lit, but it will get you to the main of the house faster.”

  He nodded and turned to go, then looked back up at her as he jogged towards it. “Don’t go anywhere.”

  She frowned at his retreating back. “Where exactly would I go?” she mused aloud. “I just said my door is locked from the outside, and I am prevented from escaping out the window by the terrifyingly long drop to the ground.”

  She glanced down the wall, and saw that, to her surprise, it would not be so very difficult to manage. It would take some considerable effort, and she would be in danger of serious injury, but when faced with the alternatives of dying or being ruined, it was far preferable.

  She paced around the room, waiting for some sign, some sound to indicate that Rafe was successful, or at least doing something. But there was nothing but the eerily silent house and her frantically pounding heart.

  Margaret glanced at the window, then back at the door, then at the window again. She exhaled sharply. “Surely he meant only not to go far…”

  She threw her bedcovers off and tugged the sheets, recreating the sheet rope she’d constructed days before. She tied it onto her bedpost and hoisted herself out of the window, letting her wrap drop to the floor. She tossed the rest of the rope down to the ground and began easing her way down the wall, holding her breath as her slippers slid a little on the wet stone.

  “Steady, Margaret,” she muttered to herself. “Steady…”

  She gripped the sheets tightly, wishing she had thought about this more thoroughly before actually climbing out of the window. It was wet and raining, and she would be absolutely drenched before she got anywhere. She ought to have waited for Rafe, he could have told her what to do, and all would have gone smoothly. But no, she had to be impulsive, and…

  Her breath caught as she felt the sheet start to give above her, and she tried to move faster down the wall, only for her feet to slip more in her haste. She scraped her knees and hands against the walls, wincing at the abrasions. Suddenly she found herself clinging to the sheets with her feet in the air, and a rapidly loosening sheet above her.

  There was no time for anything else. She lowered herself with her arms a few more feet, and then shrieked softly when the knot gave way completely, sending he
r and the sheets tumbling to the ground, which thankfully was now only a few feet away.

  More bruised in pride than in body, Margaret got to her feet and ran to the side door, which opened with ease for its third guest, and she found herself engulfed in the darkness of the servants’ side hall. She felt her way along the wall, treading as lightly as she could in her sodden slippers and nightgown. She felt a gap in the wall and glanced down to see two of the maids cowering in a doorway.

  “Miss!” one of them whimpered. “There are two strange men in the house! One came in after the other, and we hid ourselves!”

  “Good,” Margaret said firmly. “Stay hidden. It’s going to be all right.”

  “Where?” the other whispered.

  Margaret almost sighed in exasperation. “Go down to the kitchens. It will be quite safe there.”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  She paused in her motion, and glanced at them. “How should I go to the guest rooms if I do not want to be seen?”

  “Take the servants’ stair. It’s a few paces behind you to the left.”

  Margaret nodded her thanks, and waved them away, waiting for them to move before she did so. She hurried on, taking the long and cramped servants’ stair up to the third floor, then rushing down to the room Helen was in. She entered the room without knocking and found Helen sitting on the bed in her wrap, awake and confused.

  “Lord, Margaret,” she said faintly, looking her over. “Did you climb out of your window?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” Margaret retorted. She glanced down at herself, and found that her nightgown was filthy and in its current drenched state, left nothing to the imagination. She grabbed for one of Helen’s wraps nearby and donned it, cinching the sash tightly around her. “Come with me.”

  Helen scrambled off of the bed. “What is going on?”

  “Shh!” Margaret scolded, gesturing for silence, and for her cousin to follow.

  They made their way down the stairs to the rest of the house, only to suddenly hear several thumps and crashes from her father’s study. Margaret started to run towards the noises, but Helen grabbed her arm.