The Rakehell Regency Romance Series Boxed Set 5

by MacMurrough, Sorcha

  And George was expecting to talk with them about it in less than two hours.

  "Can what, Viola?" he prompted when the silence lengthened.

  "Well, do something about your appearance. Make you stand out a bit less, and not look so much like the description they are no doubt giving out all over town, especially at the main bridges leading to the north side of the Thames."

  "Aye, they will at that."

  "Then we haven’t got much time. If they have any inkling you’re here..."

  "They’ll guess eventually," he said with a sigh. He drained his cup, then held it out for more. Once she had poured, he asked, "So what do you propose?"

  "I say grow the beard, lose most of the hair, and dye it black."

  To her relief, he merely said, "And clothes?"

  "You’re not quite as big as George, so his best ought to do."

  "Tell him thanks."

  She nodded. "I will. And you can tell him yourself. I have a feeling you and he are going to become great friends."

  "And pigs might fly," he grumbled.

  "Now you have to promise me to try."

  "Oh, why is that?" he asked with a frown, hoping to have as little to do with pimps and criminals as possible, however kind-hearted they might appear to be.

  "Because he’s going to teach you everything you need to know about being a rake, a man about town. And me a woman of the world."

  "Pardon me?" Alistair gasped. "He’s not going to lay a finger on—"

  "Never fear. He hasn’t agreed to do it yet, but—"

  "I can’t tell you how relieved I am to hear that," he said dryly, with a roll of his eyes.

  "Eat first, then come on downstairs and have a bath, and we can talk about what we need to do a bit more sensibly."

  But George’s plan went well beyond anything Viola had ever anticipated, and was more shocking as well.

  He came to collect Alistair’s clothes, the ones he had first worn the evening he had fled Newgate.

  "Are all the pockets empty?" he asked Alister as he sat soaking in one of the bathhouse tubs.

  "Aye, I transferred everything over to the set you gave me. It's all still in the pockets. But thanks for the loan of the new outfit. I'll pay you back as soon as—"

  His eyes wideded as he took most of the money out of the billfold, and then went for the seal from his your fob watch. He snapped the chain, and stuffed the seal back into the waistcoat pocket.

  "What the hell?" Alistair gasped. "That was a family heirloom. My father’s—"

  "Congratulations. You’re a dead man."

  "What?"

  "A body with these clothes and personal items belonging to one Alistair Grant will be fished out of the Thames tomorrow. That should get them to stop looking for you."

  Alistair's eyes widened at his cleverness, but then rounded as a terrible thought struck him. "And just whose body do you intend to—"

  "Whoever turns up fresh and unclaimed at the morgue who seems the right size."

  "Oh, charming! What about the hair?"

  "A bit of silver paint ought to stop them from inquiring too closely. You in your new rig-out and all coiffured and everything will also put them off the scent."

  Alistair looked doubtful, but nodded. "All right, do your best."

  George flashed a brief smile. "I intend to."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  By the time George returned to the brothel several hours later, having done all he could to make it appear as though Alistair were dead, the barrister was almost literally a new man.

  His clothes were much more flashy than his usual sombre black or grey, and he had cut his hair in the latest fashionable style with the help of Bob, formerly a barber. His side whiskers were now all the go, he had a fine mustache, and his hair was jet black.

  He twirled a walking cane and practised ogling the women until Viola panicked that he might be enjoying his role too heartily.

  "Mission accomplished," George announced. "Alistair’s body, as it were, will be fished out of the Thames, and those papers you wanted will be ready tomorrow. There really is a chap in the overseas service, Alan Goodwood, who has been in India for years. He really is high up on the list of barristers out there. So they won’t take it too amiss that you returned. In fact, they will probably snap you up at once now that Alistair Grant is dead."

  He winced at this, but made no demur. "So long as the real Alan Goodwood doesn't turn up, we'll be fine."

  "Aye. Present yourself to Lord Sidmouth at the Home Office as soon as you supposedly dock, and see if you can get into the inner sanctum once more. And your charming lady wife will undoubtedly be very busy for the first few days getting the house settled, but I feel sure she will have time to plan some social engagements."

  "Lawrence will help if he’s in Town. If not we’ll need to get to Bristol."

  "He’s just up. Arrived yesterday. I checked. His wife is with him."

  Alistair nodded approvingly. "Ah, the extremely clever Juliet. Good. I feel sure she will be a big help to Viola."

  Her nose immediately lifted in the air. "I certainly don’t need some snooty--"

  Alistair shook his head. "She’s not in the least spoilt. No, she’s good with money and people. You might find that her brand of charm goes a long way in—"

  "Are you saying I’m not charming?" Viola fumed.

  Alistair stared at her. "Why are you being so unreasonable? This whole masquerade was your idea, if you’ll recall."

  She sighed. "I’m sorry. I just, well..."

  George looked at the two of them and decided to give them a bit of privacy. "I see you have a few more things to talk about, so I'll leave you to it."

  "No need," Viola said in clipped tones.

  George gave her a knowing look. "I’ll be back soon."

  Once he had withdrawn she said, "I’m sorry, Alistair. It’s just that I feel, well, a bit out of my league. I mean, you make all the Rakehells and their wives sound so wonderful, I can’t compete."

  "Darling, you don’t have to compete. You’re your own special person. And I’m marrying you, not Juliet."

  "But that’s just it. What if they all hate me?"

  Alistair laughed heartily at the very idea, though his mirth made her frown even more deeply. "Even if they did, they would be too polite to say. But take my word for it, they will adore you. Philip and Jasmine will—"

  His face fell then, and he clutched his stomach as though he had been punched. "God," he wheezed. "I’m so sorry."

  Viola was instantly at his side, one arm around his shoulder. "So am I. But we’re going to do this for them. I promise not to be, well, jealous any longer. I also swear I will do my best to make this masquerade work, if only to avenge them."

  He kissed her and held her close. "Then I shall graciously accept every single one of George’s acting lessons and refrain from killing him. But I will never forgive him for not letting me try to save Philip."

  "Then forgive him for being a good friend to me?" she asked softly, gazing deeply into his silvery eyes.

  "Aye, love, I will. What other choice do I have. We'd both be dead without George. I just hope to God we can really trust him."

  He hugged her tightly, and Viola found herself offering up the same prayer. Everything was riding on George's help, and now this man Lawrence Howard and his wife. She only hoped that her faith and Alistair's wouldn't prove to be sorely misplaced.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The next two days passed by in a whirlwind as George coached Alistair on the behaviour and mannerisms of a sparkish man.

  With his fine clothes, quizzing glass, and altered accent, Alistair seemed the epitome of an upper class English man just back from the Far East, with more money than sense, and an eye for the ladies and a good piece of horseflesh.

  George told him Lawrence could give him some information on life in India to provide convincing detail and all he had to do was imitate some of the more worldly, arrogant men in his gent’s club.


  Lawrence was stunned to have a Mr. and Mrs. Goodwood call upon him, and sweep into the drawing room so bombastically it was as if they owned the place.

  The Howard butler rolled his eyes at the pair, so gauche and rude in their habits they might as well have had parvenu tattooed to their foreheads.

  But as soon as the door closed after the tea tray had been brought, Alistair sidled up close to Lawrence and whispered his true identity.

  Lawrence looked so stunned Viola almost laughed.

  Juliet caught her husband’s aghast expression, and looked at the couple again. "Alistair?" she gasped.

  "Sush. Al will do."

  Lawrence shook his head. "I can’t believe— Everyone said you were a murderer. That you were dead. I can’t tell you how relieved I am. How shocked and appalled we all were about Philip and Jasmine. The service at St. M—"

  Alistair began to tremble. "Please, I can’t talk about this now. I need to explain, but we haven’t much time. Will you help me, or do you want to turn me into the authorities?"

  Lawrence scowled at him, and shoved him into an ornamental chair so roughly it was a wonder it didn't splinter.

  "Sod that for a lark. I may have been away in India a long time, but you’re no killer. And if I can do anything to get revenge upon the people who did that to Philip—" He stopped and stared. "Say, they accused a woman of—"

  "It’s not what you think," Alistair insisted at once. "Yes, it’s true. Viola’s been accused as well. Virginia as we can call her now. But she’s as innocent as I am, and has saved my life at least half a dozen times already since this whole nightmare started."

  Lawrence stared at her for a time longer, then nodded. "All right, if you’re willing to vouch for her, tell us what you need."

  Viola came to sit near Alistair as he outlined, "I’m to be a nabob just back from India. You need to put me through my paces, tell me about your ships, tea, India and so on."

  "And let you stay here?" he said, with an uneasy look at Juliet which his old friend couldn't fail to interpret.

  Alistair shook his head quickly. "No. They’ll be keeping an eye on all my old friends, I'm sure. I only came here to ask for information, not a place to stay. I’m well disguised, but my height is a bit obvious and there’s little I can do about that except stoop. We’ve faked my own death, but they might still wonder. So we’ll pretend to know each other vaguely from India if it comes to it, and your wife will help us with our new home."

  Lawrence relaxed and nodded. "Aye, your staying is too risky to my mind, but I'm happy to help with anything else you need, money, clothes, you have only to ask, both of you."

  "Thank you."

  "And you've come to the right place, and with almost the perfect cover story. My ship Calcutta just arrived, actually, so the timing is perfect."

  "Very good, then. In two days I shall present myself at Lord Sidmouth’s and offer my services to the Crown. And in the meantime, I shall be seen in all of the most fashionable places, hiding in plain sight, as it were, and do my best to be the complete opposite of my old character in every way."

  Lawrence grinned. "That will be a challenge. But you’re doing well. And with this lively young lady to help, I’m sure it will be a great deal of fun to put one over on all of them."

  "So long as we never lose sight of the goal. Justice," Alistair said tightly.

  Lawrence nodded, and Juliet poured more tea. "To justice," they toasted, clinking their cups.

  "Remind me to develop a taste for this stuff," Alistair said with a grimace.

  "For certain. Cold and watery, it looks like good whiskey," he pointed out. "Many in the East are topers simply because the water is so bad. So by all means, take to drink. Carry two flasks with you, one of cold tea, one of the real stuff, and don't forget to occasionally splash yourself with the liquor for good effect. People will say more in front of a sot than a sober man."

  Alistair grinned. "I’m beginning to like the sound of this after all."

  "Just so long as you keep a clear head."

  "As crystal. They've been a step or two ahead of us in this dance all along, but I'm going to be hard on their heels."

  Viola smiled at him, and they clustered around the table with pen and paper to outline all Alistair needed to know to pass himself off as the barrister Alan Goodwood, newly arrived from India.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Alistair’s heart hammered in his chest as he strode into Lord Sidmouth’s office two days later. He had only ever met the man about ten times, but still, the fear of recognition was very real.

  "Well, er, Goodwood. Back from Calcutta, eh? So what can we do for you?" Sidmouth said, scarcely looking up from his papers.

  "I understand that there is now a vacancy at King’s Court. And whilst I would never presume to put myself forward in so blatant a manner, whoever is elevated to so lofty a position is going to need to be replaced."

  His head shot up in surprise. "I see. Direct, aren’t you? But you have evidently prospered out in India. Why would you want to continue to practice—"

  Alistair’s face was the picture of aristocratic hauteur. "I know I’ve done dammed well for myself. The thing is, I like to get my hand in. I’d be bored to tears being a gentleman of leisure, and well, I always fancied myself something of a Society figure. I feel sure a few high profile cases in the next few years will open all sorts of doors for me.

  "But my main reason is of course patriotism. I would like to see England great again. That means prosecuting its criminals to the fullest extent of the law. Hanging is too good for most of them, I say."

  Alistair nearly choked on the words, but he knew it was precisely what Sidmouth wanted to hear. And if he had any chance of getting where he needed to go—

  Sidmouth fixed one cold eye on him. "I don’t mind telling you that your loyalty is music to my ears. We’ve had a run of bad luck, what with Witherspoon’s sexual disgrace a couple of years ago, and that bloody Alistair Grant. Incorruptible indeed, except for being a damned Radical. Didn’t understand loyalty, patriotism. Bit the hand that fed him. Allowed some dangerous men to go free because he said it was the principle of the thing.

  "Well, there’s only one principle so far as I can see. That is to do one’s duty to one’s country. Prosecute the men we catch in acts of obvious wrongdoing, such as public assembly, and hang the lot of them. If you can promise me that, you can have the job."

  "What?" Alistair gasped, then realised his true horror was most likely written all over his face.

  But Sidmouth attributed his shocked reaction to mere delighted surprise. "I won’t beat about the bush and waste your time and mine, so yes, I am offering you the post you've come to ask for. The next two chaps coming up are both too like Grant for my own liking. If I let Herny Brougham loose, we’re all done for in Britain.

  "You on the other hand are not the toadying type. You wouldn’t need to be anyway, since you’ll have my blessing. If you guarantee me you shall stand for English law and order, then I shall elevate you above them all."

  Alistair couldn't help but argue, "But they will never accept—"

  Sidmouth fixed him with a cold eye. "I don’t care whether they do accept you or not. Bugger the whole bloody pack of do-gooders, I say. In my role, I can do as I wish. As head of the Home Office, I have the power to push the appointments though. The King will do as I say. So the only question that remains now is, are you up to the task, Goodwood?"

  He twirled his cane arrogantly. "Before I answer, I need to know what sort of case load we are talking about. I mean, given that Grant and his assistant are both gone—"

  Sidmouth turned to his papers once more as if the matter were not of the least concern. "A lot has stacked up, it’s true. But some of it was burnt as well. It will take some time to get everything sorted. But I feel sure you’re up to it. I’m positive everyone will be predisposed to be generous with the calendar considering what a huge undertaking this shall be on the government’s beh
alf."

  "Thank you, sir, you are too kind." Alistair began to bow out.

  Sidmouth stared. "What, a man like you? Don’t tell me you need time to think about it."

  "No, sir. I just need to ask one question."

  "Yes?"

  "When do I start?"

  Sidmouth gave a tight-lipped smile and offered his hand.

  Alistair took it, trying desperately to quell the shudder of revulsion as he touched the cold, limp fingers.