The Rakehell Regency Romance Series Boxed Set 5

by MacMurrough, Sorcha

  "I’m telling you, you cross George Davenant at your own peril. Don’t be at all surprised if you end up in the Thames with your feet weighted down with a few ballast stones."

  Alistair said impatiently, "I have no intention of crossing him, as you put it. I simply have to pay a, well, social visit."

  "I’ll bet!" His braying laugh was as lewd as could be.

  "Not that kind of visit!" Alistair found himself declaring indignantly. "A, a business call."

  "God help you, sir, I just hope you’ve made your will."

  Alistair shook his head. "Now that’s enough. I can’t possibly believe—"

  "Lots of people don’t believe it, until it’s too late. And they’re never heard from again. You’ll forgive me if I don’t take you all the way. His theatre is in Nag Lane, and—"

  "Theatre?"

  "Aye, The New Rose. He owns it an’ all. Most amazing collection of orange wenches you’ve ever seen. Each one plumper and more juicy than the next, if you take my meaning, sir."

  "Er, thanks, but I really am not in the market for a trollop. I need information."

  "Then you’re definitely a dead man, sir. I’ll just turn around—"

  "No you won’t," Alistair insisted, despite the fact that the hairs were truly standing up on the back of his neck now. "Take me to The Three Bells. Or The New Rose if you really are so terrified."

  "All right, sir, but don’t ever say I didn’t warn ye. The performance will be over soon. If you follow him and the players, they’ll all end up at The Three Bells."

  "How will I know him?"

  The driver laughed again. "Oh, you’ll know him, all right."

  As soon as they crossed Tower Bridge, the coach took three right turns and then Alistair was in the heart of Christ Church parish. They soon slowed in front of a rather dilapidated old timbered building which looked as though it had been standing there for four hundred years. He could practically hear the beams creak as he got out and attempted to pay the coach driver. Alistair wondered why it looked so familiar.

  "Never you mind about money," the driver said. "Good luck." He cracked the whip and the horse took off like a thoroughbred.

  Alistair stared after him in consternation. What on earth could possibly have the man so spooked?

  The theatre doorway was illuminated with flambeaux, and Alistair stood in the entryway getting his bearings. He could hear the play being performed within. It was Macbeth. He shivered with apprehension. Bloody murder had indeed been committed tonight.

  A small man as ugly as a monkey asked him if he wanted to go in to see the last few minutes free of charge. He shook his head.

  "Actually, I need directions to The Three Bells."

  The man looked him up and down. "Blokes’ll be getting out in a minute. You can go along with them."

  "I’m looking for George Davenant. Is he here?"

  His spine stiffened. "Why?" he asked warily.

  "I need his help locating someone."

  "I see. Well George doesn’t hold with strangers."

  "In that case I’ll go to The Three Bells."

  The little man already had him up against the wall before Alistair even knew what hit him, and was searching his body thoroughly.

  "I’m not carrying any weapons," Alistair said loudly. "I’m a barrister, for heaven’s sake."

  "Some of your kind can be the worst of all. That bastard Witherspoon and his virgin sacrifices last year, for example. Say, silver hair...." He eased up his rough handling slightly. You’re Alistair Grant, aren’t you?" he said in a tone half-admiring, half-accusing. "If I were you, then I jolly would carry a weapon. There must be several hundred men in London just lining up to kill you."

  He spun Alistair round and pinned his back to the wall. "Why the hell are you here? We don’t want no trouble at The New Rose."

  "But you do at the brothel?" Alistair couldn’t resist asking.

  "Goes with the territory. But George will have your guts if you ruin the performance and cause a riot."

  "Look, I’m not here in a professional capacity. Not the way you think, anyway."

  "You don’t know what I think. I want you out of here now."

  "Shouldn’t you check with Mr. Davenant before you throw me out on my ear? Not that I’m even in the theatre in the first place."

  "He won’t want to see you," the small man insisted.

  A deep voice emanated from the doorway. "Trouble, Daniel?"

  The little man turned to look over his shoulder at the giant who filled the portal. "No, sir, just getting rid of—"

  "I’m Alistair Grant. I need your help," Alistair said desperately, thinking of the urgency of the dying young man's message. That he had to find the young woman, and help her. That the young man trusted George, but trusted Alistair even more...

  "The Devil you are!" He peered at Alistair, and pulled him right over to one of the torches to get a better look. The flames nearly scorched him, but he held still.

  At length the huge man nodded. "Aye, it really is him, Daniel. Go you on in. I’ll take care of this."

  "But—"

  "You checked him for weapons. He had none. And I think he knows I can snap his neck like a pullet’s if he so much as looks at me the wrong way. So off you go. I’ll count on you to deal with tonight’s takings and close up."

  George Davenant looked right and left to be certain Alistair was alone. Then he grabbed his arm and dragged him down the street.

  "Whatever you have to say to me, you make it fast, or I’ll gut you like a fish and throw you in the Thames."

  "I’m not here to see you exactly. I need to get to The Three Bells to deliver a message and the cabbie dropped me here."

  "Who sent you?"

  "A tall thin blond man, very handsome, in Newgate. He didn’t get a chance to tell me his name."

  George’s hand squeezed his arm like a vice. "What would you know of him?"

  "Nothing, except that he’s been stabbed."

  George flattened him against the wall. "You tell me what happened right now, or the fish’ll have you."

  "I did nothing," Alistair protested. "I just happened to find him bleeding on the floor at Newgate. It was only chance that brought me there tonight of all nights. Bloody well let go, or I won’t be able to tell you anything!" he choked.

  George released him and dragged him along, his dark eyes, almost black, darting everywhere, taking in the entire scene before him, looking for the least sign of trouble.

  "Why have you come here?"

  "To tell his woman what happened. He asked me to."

  "I don’t believe you. He would never—"

  "I’m telling you, he gave me this miniature out of his pocket and said she was at The Three Bells. Whether wife, harlot or whatever, he didn’t say. Didn’t even give me a name. He lost consciousness, the prison doctor came, and that was the end of that.

  "Except that one of the young guards, Bradford, has sent for my friend Dr. Herriot, who runs a clinic for fallen women in Bethnal Green. He's a good man, discreet. If anyone can save your friend, he can."

  The other man looked mollified for a moment.

  "And I told that fat quack if the lad didn’t pull through with flying colours I was going to make sure he got the sack."

  George Davenant’s eyes hardened. "Why would you even bother? All for a man you say you don't even know?"

  "Because it’s the right thing to do," Alistair said simply. "He needed help. He tried to save my client’s life and very nearly lost his."

  Davenant released him fully at last and began to walk down the dank alley with rapid strides. "Who was your client?" he threw over his shoulder.

  "A chap called John Gribbens," he answered candidly. "No one special that I could see, just a thief caught pilfering from his employer. I didn’t really think anything of it until my associate Philip pointed out that he confessed when he could quite easily have led everyone a merry dance. So I looked at his story, realised it had more holes than a si
eve, and went to see him this evening, my last chance to talk to him before his trial started tomorrow.

  "Except that by the time I got there, someone had shot him and slit his throat. Whoever did it wanted to make absolutely sure he couldn’t talk, was dead. The bullet alone would have done it. Nearly blew him apart. Any fool could see that."

  "And the lad tried to save him, you say?" George said, his eyes never once leaving his face.

  "Aye, knife wounds on his hands and forearms, and one deep stab wound in the belly."

  "Well, you know, there’s all sorts of violence in the cells, for all sorts of reasons," Davenant said in a casual tone. "Anything from fighting for food to a lover’s quarrel. How do you know you didn’t just interrupt two sodomites in the middle of a shag?"

  "Because this wasn’t in the cells. It was in the interview room."

  "Bloody hell. Where were the guards?" he rasped.

  "I only saw two. The one at the door, Prentice, I think it was, and young Bradford."

  "And the bodies were just lying there?" George asked slowly.

  "Not bodies. One corpse, one injured man. I found the lad first. He had been trying to get up, rouse himself to call for help, I suppose."

  "Found them?"

  "Aye, stuffed under the desks."

  "I see."

  Alistair looked around him, and tried to keep up with George’s impatient long-legged strides. "Look, I have no intention of causing trouble, but nor can I go until I’ve delivered the message he entrusted with me. And no, I won’t tell it to you, or I’m sure I shall have my throat slit for my troubles."

  George flashed what passed for a smilein his grim persona. "You might well do, but not by me. In fact, I owe you a favour. There’s not many men of your class who would go out of their way to help a convict and deliver a message to a prostitute in the most debauched section of London."

  Alistair tried to suppress the jolt of dejection that the gorgeous woman in the portrait and his heated dreams was in fact a fallen woman. Well, it was not as if he wasn’t familiar with them. And he was no saint. He had confined himself to widows, but it had always been a business arrangement, never an affair of the heart. Not since his wife had died had he allowed himself to feel...

  What had he expected anyway, given the nature of his dreams, more erotic than anything he had ever experienced, despite all the images of making love her having been laced with horror. He must have met the woman somewhere, at the theatre, and that would explain...

  But no, it didn’t really explain anything at all. Not the persistence of the visions. Certainly not the utter horror of what he had seen.

  He tried to restrain a shiver, but his companion detected it.

  "We’ll be indoors soon, Grant. A hot buttered rum will be just the ticket. There will be a hard frost tonight, for all the storm was so fierce."

  "I think I’ll pass on the hospitality," the barrister replied drily.

  "I promise it won’t be laced with poison."

  Alistair again felt the dark eyes upon him, weighing, assessing. All-knowing. He could see why the cab driver had been so terrified. The man was huge. And he certainly seemed to be someone in complete control. Never to be crossed. And never, ever to be trusted.

  "Show it to me."

  "Pardon?" Alistair asked in confusion.

  "Whatever it was he gave you. Tell me where it came from."

  "An inside trouser pocket. Here." He pointed. Then he fished the item out of his pocket.

  He showed him the miniature. George’s hand would have closed over it, but Alistair palmed it back. "I’ll give it to her. Or its owner. No one else."

  "You think he could possibly survive after what’s happened to him?" George asked without a trace of emotion.

  "I hope so. He was too young to die like a dog in a stinking prison like that."

  "I find that an odd thing to say considering what you do for a living," George sniped, turning a corner and leading him down a long alley.

  Alistair could hear the sounds of carousing, and was relieved in a sense. It was a cold and inclement night, and the streets were all eerily empty. Just as the prison had been. He was starting to feel so alone...

  Had been alone too long.

  He slapped that thought down before he followed its trail. The last thing he wanted to do was recall his amazing and lewd dream about the blond woman when he was about to meet her.

  Davenant pushed open the door to the pub. Alistair was immediately enveloped by pipe smoke, voices, a blanket of warmth wrapping around him from the good fire blazing in the large open hearth.

  "Bob, how’s things?" George asked.

  "Fine, Boss."

  "This here’s Grant. Taking him through to the kitchen. Can you give us a hot buttered rum, and my usual?"

  "Aye, Boss."

  He pushed on through to a pleasant and very normal-looking kitchen with a huge hearth for cooking and a larder bursting at the seams. If it was a whorehouse it was certainly very mundane looking.

  "Some quick eggs and bacon will set you up rightly."

  "Nothing for me, thanks."

  "You can cook them while you wait. That way you can be sure nothing’s been tampered with."

  "But I’m not hun—"

  "Yes you are. Don’t be polite and don’t bother to lie. I can hear your stomach growling a mile off. Believe me, where I come from, I know the sound of hunger. And you should always take a good meal when you have the chance, ‘cos you never know when you’ll get your next one."

  He now began to point. "Pan, eggs, bacon, butter, bread, toasting fork, tea, coffee, milk, marmalade. I’ll go see if my friend is receiving visitors. Might as well make enough for four. The others will be along later, but I don’t expect you’ll be staying."

  "Others?"

  The dark haired manager explained, "The actors from The New Rose. We all take supper and go over things a couple of times a week. This is one of those nights. I’ll be back soon. Shout to Bob if the kitchen goes on fire."

  Alistair knew the words were only a jest, but they reminded him of his dreadful dream, and he shivered. He pressed his hands together to stop them shaking, and got the large iron frying pan onto the grill. He began to fry bacon while he scrambled the eggs in a bowl, allowing two each. He propped up the laden toasting forks and prepared coffee with what remained in the bean grinder, wetting it with hot water from the kettle sitting on a trivet in the corner of the hearth.

  He was curious to see the rest of the house, but he decided he was better off intruding upon these people’s lives as little as possible. He didn’t really want to know where the lovely woman from the miniature worked. Didn’t want to see her in action. She looked so pure and delicate. He wanted to pretend for a little while longer she was chaste.

  Oh, who was he trying to fool? He was hoping she wasn’t. So he could attempt what he only dared dream about...

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The reality was even better than the vision, if such a thing were possible. She entered as if floating on a cloud, a tiny fairy who barely came half way up his chest.

  For all the plainness of her gown, and its lack of quality, she held herself like a princess. Head back, eyes raised, shoulders squared, arms at her sides, hand not betraying the least sign of nerves as she came forward to shake his, she was every inch a princess, a goddess from his most erotic dreams.

  "Hello, Mr. Grant. I have of course heard of you. George has told me something of why you’re here."

  A second woman, dark-haired, now entered, and he noted that she stood by the young woman protectively.

  The madam? he surmised.

  She was actually nothing like what he pictured one would look like. She was very pretty, with an unlined face apart from the world-weary expression around the eyes.

  "This is my friend Emma. You can talk freely in front of her."

  Alistair bowed to them both. "I’m sorry, I would feel better about just telling you. Then if you wish to confide in your friends
—"

  George nodded. "I’ll take care of the eggs. The blue room is free."

  "Oh, I say," Alistair protested, blushing.

  George gave him a bemused look, then nodded. "All right, then, you watch the food doesn’t burn. We’ll be right outside."

  Alistair objected after they had been left alone, "He doesn’t seem very interested in your welfare if he was just going to let you go off with me into a chamber—"