“Very well, Samuel.” Morgan shot the footman a weary look. “Take her home. I’m sure you did your best to hold to your end of the bargain.”
At the word “bargain,” Samuel groaned, then quickly offered Clara his arm. “Come on, m’lady.”
Clara scowled at him. “What bargain is he talking about?” When Samuel hung his head, she turned her scowl on Morgan. “What do you mean, sir?”
The glance Morgan leveled on her was cool. “Our discussion is finished, remember? You don’t answer my questions; I don’t answer yours. Good night, mademoiselle.” Then he strolled back into the tavern with the self-satisfaction of a man who knew he’d had the last word.
As soon as the door shut behind him, she exploded. “Oh, that man can be the most annoying, most…most outrageous—” Ignoring Samuel’s proffered arm, she whirled to stalk off toward where the coach was parked near the Home. “He’s always so smug and sure of himself. And now he’s even got you involved in his secretive schemes.”
“No, m’lady.” Samuel hastened after her. “It’s not like that, I swear.”
She stopped short. “Then what is it like, pray tell?”
Samuel halted too, staring down at his feet guiltily. “He’s been teaching me to fight is all. So I’d know how to protect you.” When she gaped at him, he added, “I-I been meeting him for lessons in the mornings after I leave you.”
That was not what she’d expected. Morgan was helping Samuel to protect her? “I don’t believe it. Why?”
Samuel shrugged. “’Cause I asked him to. That one evening after we left the shop, I went back to give him a piece of my mind, and he held his own. Then he said he’d teach me how to look after you if I wanted.”
“Just like that?” She tried not to be warmed by the revelation, but how could she not be pleased that Morgan had gone to such lengths on her behalf?
Then something occurred to her. “But he said a ‘bargain.’ What were you to do in return?”
Samuel sighed, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. “I’m to keep you from meddling in his affairs.”
“Oh, of course.” Her little bubble of satisfaction burst. She should have known Morgan did nothing without a purpose. In this case, the wretch figured that bribing her footman to keep her away would leave him free to conduct his illegal affairs without interference.
“Truly, m’lady, I don’t think he’s the devil you take him to be,” Samuel said. “He’s very concerned about your safety, and that means something, don’t it?”
“Yes.” It meant he’d found a way into Samuel’s loyalties.
She would feel betrayed by Samuel’s defection except that she knew how seriously the footman regarded his duty to protect her. And how adept Morgan was at manipulating well-meaning people.
Very well, at least now she knew she couldn’t rely on Samuel in her fight against Morgan. She’d have to manage any interference with Morgan’s enterprise alone. But one way or the other, she would interfere. Because she refused to stand by and watch that…that deceitful wretch tempt all of her charges into his camp. No, indeed.
The trouble was, what could she do? She would turn the wretch in to the police if she thought they’d act. But past experience had taught her that they required hard proof, which she didn’t have. And even if they would investigate Morgan on her say-so, not all of the officers could be trusted. If she linked up with a dishonest one, he would merely take whatever bribe Morgan offered on the sly, and that would be the end of it.
Clara sighed. That was the trouble with Spitalfields. Everything was done on the sly, under cover of darkness or in secret transactions in closed rooms. If the activities of some of those scoundrels were ever dragged out into a public arena, they’d…
Yes, that was it! That’s precisely what was needed! And she knew just the person to help her shine a light upon the dark doings.
She smiled as a plan formed in her mind. Morgan might have gained Samuel’s loyalties and tempted Johnny into his old ways, but he hadn’t won the war yet. Tomorrow she would set about scuttling the captain’s battleship.
Chapter 7
I am inclined to believe that there have been but few
ages, if any, since the creation of the world, in which
vices did not reign as much as in the present.
“Introduction,” Juvenile Trials for Robbing Orchards,
Telling Fibs, and Other Heinous Offences
By Master Tommy Littleton,
Secretary to the Court, R. Johnson
The tap-tapping of the hammer in Morgan’s dream crescendoed to thunder, jolting him awake. Grumbling threats, Morgan rolled over to sit on the edge of his bed, head throbbing wildly. The knocking came from the side door.
Who the hell was that? He glanced at the clock and couldn’t believe his eyes. Eleven o’clock, long past time for his lessons with Samuel. He was in no mood to deal with the footman this morning, especially after Samuel had failed to keep Clara at bay last night. He started to lie back and thrust a pillow over his aching head, then thought better of it. Samuel might know what Clara had meant by all her threats to “act.”
That brought Morgan lurching to his feet. He stumbled forward, nearly tripping over his own boots, and had just enough presence of mind to realize he was naked. He reached for his rumpled drawers just as the knocking began again, setting off a series of explosions in his head.
“I’m coming, devil take you!” he cried as he dragged his drawers and trousers on. Pulling on a shirt, he headed for the side door, then swung it open so violently that it slammed against the wall, punctuating his headache with an additional stab of pain.
But it wasn’t Samuel standing there.
“Quick, let me in!” Johnny Perkins begged, his gaze flitting along the alley as if he expected to be caught any second.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Morgan asked, scrubbing a hand over his whiskered face.
Johnny blinked at his harsh tone. “I’ve come for my money. For the watch.”
Morgan glanced down the alley. “What about Lady Clara?”
“She ain’t at the Home today. She sent word that she’s going for a drive with her aunt in the park.”
That would explain why Samuel hadn’t come this morning. Morgan hesitated, debating. If Clara ever found out about this, she’d have both their heads.
On the other hand, perhaps he should give the boy his money and be done with it. As long as her ladyship never heard of it and Johnny stayed away, she’d no longer have a reason to fret that he was corrupting her children. “All right,” he growled and let the boy pass inside.
Then Johnny slammed the door behind him.
“Sacrebleu, keep the noise down, for God’s sake,” he grumbled.
Johnny looked him over with narrowing eyes. “What happened to you? You look like you been hit by lightning.”
“Blue lightning. Had enough last night to set a house afire. Not that it’s any of your concern.”
And who’d have thought a little gin could do so much damage? He didn’t even like gin. He’d planned to spend his money buying drinks for other people, to loosen their tongues about the Specter.
But his plan had gone awry after his encounter with Lady Clara. Her looks of horror and her promises to “act,” whatever that meant, had plagued him until he’d started downing one dram after another. Soon the rounds of drinks he’d bought for possible informants had become rounds of drinks for companions in crime, and he’d abandoned all control. He was paying for it this morning, damn her eyes.
He turned toward the back room, where he kept the safe. “Does Lady Clara often go for drives with her aunt?”
“Not since I been staying at the Home. But I reckon her aunt gets a mite lonely with m’lady away so much. She probably twisted Lady Clara’s arm.”
Or Lady Clara twisted her aunt’s. What was the wench up to now? It was hard to guess. He’d never met a woman so unpredictable, so heedless of her own safety, so…generous to wayward c
hildren.
He swallowed. It was her caring toward them that stymied him. He’d never seen the like in his life. And how could Johnny not realize how lucky he was? “Won’t anybody notice you’re gone?”
“Not yet. I’m supposed to be scrubbing pots in the kitchen with Peg, but I promised her a shilling for letting me go. So I figure I’m safe enough until lunch.”
Morgan relaxed. With any luck he wouldn’t be getting the lad into trouble. Again. “I’ll fetch your money.” Morgan stopped Johnny from following him into the back room and gestured to the front of the store. “You wait over there.”
When a gleam appeared in Johnny’s eye, Morgan added, “If I find anything missing when I return, you’ll pay for it later, and I don’t mean in shillings. Understood?”
That banished Johnny’s avarice. The boy bobbed his head, wide-eyed and fearful.
Morgan squelched a smile. It was amazing what an idle threat and a dire look could do to even the most incorrigible pickpocket. As he headed for the safe, he called out, “So how much are you figuring I owe you?”
“Two guineas,” Johnny called back.
Morgan rolled his eyes at the lad’s blatant attempt to fleece him. No self-respecting fence would give the boy more than ten shillings.
Keeping a wary eye on the doorway into the front room, Morgan released the hidden panel in the wall, opened the safe, and counted out a handful of coins. Then he closed up and returned to the front room, where Johnny now fidgeted as he stood at the window, scanning the street.
“Relax, boy,” Morgan said. “Nobody’s about in Spitalfields at this hour.” Late nights guzzling gin meant late mornings for most residents. His thundering headache signaled that he’d been one of them in truth last night.
And for what? He’d learned nothing useful, no matter how many drinks he’d bought and how many stupid jokes he’d laughed at. His drinking companions had whined about hard times and schemes gone wrong, about troubles with the magistrate and friends in Newgate, but nobody had been willing to discuss Spitalfields’ most notorious criminal.
All he’d ended up with was a serious case of morning-after regrets, centered mostly in his churning belly and pulsating noggin. He’d been so sure he was past the nightmare days of his childhood, but all it had taken was a little gin to make him cozy with companions he would despise when he was sober.
He scowled. One more sin to hold to Ravenswood’s account.
Striding behind the counter, he plunked down Johnny’s money. “Six shillings. That’s all the watch was worth.” No point in giving the boy enough to tempt him to return.
Johnny scowled. “I s’pose I got no choice when it comes to you bloody close-fisted fences.”
He reached for the coins, but Morgan kept his hand on them. “Before I give you this, you must promise me you’ll never return to my shop.”
Johnny jerked his head up with a look of shock. “Whyever not?”
Morgan raised an eyebrow. “Because there’s nothing here for you. I was under the distinct impression that you boys in the Home had abandoned the thieving way of life.”
“I can’t! Not yet.”
“Why not? If Lady Clara gives you food, clothing, and shelter, you shouldn’t bite the hand that feeds you.”
“I got to get myself twenty pounds!” Johnny burst out. “I just got to!”
“Now what’s a lad like you, with a place to stay and plenty to eat, need with twenty pounds?”
The typical defiance of all boys up to no good showed in Johnny’s scowl. “What do you care, long as you get your own piece of it?”
Morgan gritted his teeth. Sometimes playing the fence could be frustrating. He switched tactics. “What if Lady Clara catches you stealing?”
“She won’t.”
“But if she does?” Morgan persisted.
Shoving his hands in his pockets, Johnny shrugged in apparent unconcern. “I’ll have to leave the Home for a while is all.”
Johnny’s feigned nonchalance affected Morgan like a blow to the gut. When Morgan was Johnny’s age, he too had hidden his fear behind a mask of bravado. He’d been damned good at pretending not to care that his and his mother’s survival depended on her waning ability to hold a man’s attentions. At hiding from her the truth of how he’d come by the few coins he daily added to their meager store. At living with the terror that one day he’d be thrown in jail for good, and she’d be left to struggle alone.
“Do you mean to tell me that if you steal again, Lady Clara would make you leave?” he prodded.
“The rules of the Home say if you pick pockets or sell stolen goods three times—and I already been caught twice—you’re kicked out. You can’t come back ’til you’ve changed your ways for a month.”
Morgan remembered hearing of such “rules” from boys in the streets of Geneva who were in and out of charitable institutions like Lady Clara’s Home. In truth, her rules were lenient. Other facilities sent violators to the workhouse or even to jail. If they even deigned to take in criminals in the first place.
But when it came to actually throwing Johnny out, would Lady Clara have the heart for it?
Awareness suddenly dawned. She was afraid she wouldn’t. That was why she’d tried to retrieve the watch Johnny had stolen, why she was so frantic to send Morgan packing. She didn’t want to have to evict the lad—or any of her other boys who might stray. And Morgan wasn’t about to be responsible for holding her to her convictions.
“Will you give me my money or no?” Johnny asked with a boyish petulance.
“Will you promise to stay away from here? And tell the other lads they’re not welcome either?”
Johnny shrugged. “Oh, all right.” When Morgan handed over the coins, Johnny scooped them up, counted them greedily, then dropped them into the pocket of his ragged red coat. Then he tipped up his chin proudly. “I’ll just go to another fence is all.”
“Fine. Be a fool if you wish. Just don’t be one in my shop.”
A sudden clatter and wild barking outside made them both whirl toward the window. Morgan had barely assimilated the strange sight of an overly dressed matron with an armload of yapping dog descending from a carriage across the street when Johnny dropped to the floor. “Bloody hell, it’s her!”
“Her?” Morgan asked, trying to see better around his window display.
“Lady Clara!”
Morgan strolled from behind the counter and up to the glass door. A footman was now helping a second woman out of the carriage. Morgan recognized her winsome form only too well. Confound the meddling wench, it was her. This was the last thing he needed on the day a menagerie of stamping beasts took up residence inside his head.
Then Clara straightened, and Morgan’s headache was forgotten. God help him, but she was a treat for even his bleary eyes. Where was her sober brown gown, her no-nonsense bonnet? Today a perfectly tailored, snowy spencer nipped in around her bodice to accentuate her breasts and well-formed shoulders, while yards of pale blue fabric cascaded from beneath it to her ankles. When she moved, the faint breeze blew the gauzy stuff around her slender legs, hinting at a curve of calf here, an arch of dainty knee there.
The blood rushed to his head as he imagined sliding his hands up beneath the gown to skim her silk-stockinged calves. Then higher past the garters to touch the warm, scented flesh that trembled beneath his fingers as he edged up to stroke—
“How does she look?” Johnny croaked from down at Morgan’s feet. “Does she look angry? Is she headed this way?”
She’s headed for my bed if I have anything to say about it.
Cursing under his breath, Morgan fought to rein in his lascivious imagination. “She’s not headed anywhere right now. And she looks…fine.” She looked elegant and poised, exactly as a marquess’s daughter should look when out for a drive with her aunt.
And that must be her aunt—the beribboned older female with the curly-haired dog. Make that dogs. Four of them. One lolled in the aunt’s arms while the other three c
apered or stamped about Lady Clara’s dainty kid boots. Ignoring them, she strolled to the back of the carriage and issued instructions to her footman.
“She mustn’t catch me here,” Johnny whispered. Not that anybody could hear the boy over the racket those damned dogs were making. “She told me if I came back for the money, she’d kick me out for sure.”
“She won’t catch you,” Morgan reassured him. But why the devil was she here? She couldn’t possibly know Johnny was in the shop, because if she did she’d already have hauled the boy out by his ears.
The longer Morgan watched, the more bewildered he became. Clara directed her servant to erect a table and chairs on the opposite side of the street in front of a lodging house. The landlady, Mrs. Tildy, came out, conducted a seemingly congenial conversation with Clara, then went back in.
Casting Morgan’s shopfront a quick glance, Clara took a seat beside her aunt at the table and began to set out inkwells and quills and a large glass jar.
“Are they gone yet?” Johnny whispered.
“No. From the looks of it, they’re settling in for a long stay.”
“Bloody hell.”
Exactly. “Their vantage point gives them a full view of the alley and the front of the shop. There’s no back exit, so you’ll have to hide in here until they’re gone.”
“I can’t do that!” Johnny wailed. “Mrs. Carter will start looking for me come lunchtime, and when she don’t find me, she’ll sound the alarm.”
“Be quiet and let me think.” Damn it, he was in no mood for dealing with Clara and her troublesome charge. “I suppose I’ll have to get rid of her somehow.”
“What if you can’t?” Johnny’s young voice cracked. “When m’lady sets her mind to something, it ain’t that easy to change it.”
“I’ve noticed. I tell you what—go into the alley and watch from where she can’t see you. I’ll try to convince her and her aunt to leave. If I can’t, then wait until I’ve distracted her and make a run for it.” He glanced down to where Johnny lay huddled against one of the counters. “Can you manage that?”
Dance of Seduction Page 10