Bolting was the last thing on her mind. She should use this opportunity to question him further, yet she’d lost the heart for it. When she was with Morgan, she forgot she had to be safe and responsible and moral. She forgot about everything but the possibilities he showed her, the freedom from her self-imposed prison that he offered.
Besides, it was too late for questions now. The waltz was ending, and Morgan was leading her off the floor. With a sudden panic, she saw her aunt squinting at them from a short distance away, as if trying to make out Clara’s companion. Lord Winthrop stood at her aunt’s side, and after a short conference with her, left her to elbow his way through the crowd toward Clara and Morgan.
Just what she did not need—another dance with Lord Boring. Hadn’t she run him off for good? Heavens, what did it take to discourage the man?
Lord Winthrop reached them as they cleared the floor, but his attention was on Morgan, not her. “So it is you. I thought that it was. I doubted it was your devil of a brother—he would never hold a lady so improperly in public.”
Too late Clara remembered that Morgan and Lord Winthrop had a rather unpleasant history together. She hastened to smooth things over. “Why, Lord Winthrop, I wondered where you’d gone off to. I was hoping you might fetch me some—”
“Lady Clara, I know you’re unaware of this scoundrel’s true character,” Lord Winthrop broke in, full of pompous righteousness. His eyes shot daggers at Morgan. “But you should take care who your companions are. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Don’t leave us in suspense,” Morgan said lazily. “Go on, Winthrop. Enumerate for her ladyship all the details of my poor character.” He paused, and when Lord Winthrop merely stared at him, tight-lipped, he added, “I forgot—you can’t do that, can you? I seem to recall your signing a piece of paper…what was it…a stipulation of some kind? That in exchange for a sum of money far larger than what was taken from you, you’d keep quiet about certain affairs?”
So that was why Lord Winthrop had refused to speak of his attack by the pirates. He’d been paid off.
“Perhaps we should ask my brother,” Morgan went on. “I’m sure he remembers.”
“No doubt he does,” Lord Winthrop said viciously, “since the money came out of his pocket. It could hardly come out of yours, could it?”
Clara sucked in a breath. Lord Winthrop trod dangerous ground now. She could feel the muscles of Morgan’s forearm tense up beneath her hand, could almost smell his anger.
Yet when he spoke, he managed to sound cooler than the aristocratic Winthrop. “Only because he’s the one who cares about public opinion, and I don’t give a damn. So if you want to again be free to rail against me in society, by all means return my brother’s money to him. Just don’t be surprised if you succeed only in making yourself look foolish.”
That didn’t appear to sit well with the tightfisted Lord Winthrop. “I…er…wasn’t trying to breach the terms of our contract, sir. I was merely pointing out to Lady Clara that a man of your history is by no means an appropriate dance partner for her.”
“And you’d be a better one?” Morgan slid his own hand over to cover hers, stroking it casually as if to taunt the stuffy earl. “There must be a few ladies somewhere who’d prefer the sedate pace of a man your age, but I doubt Lady Clara is one of them.”
Lord Winthrop looked as if his eyes might pop right out of his head. He was gathering a head of steam, and if she didn’t do something, it would blow. So she gauged whom it was more important to placate and decided Morgan could take care of himself.
Releasing his arm, she moved to Lord Winthrop’s side and said swiftly, “Didn’t you ask me for this dance, my lord?”
He blinked at her. “I beg your pardon?”
“A dance. I believe I promised this dance to you.”
“Why…why, yes. You did indeed, Lady Clara.” Looking down his nose at Morgan, Lord Winthrop held out his arm to her with a triumphant smile. “And I am most happy to show you how a gentleman dances.”
She cast Morgan an imploring look. “Thank you for the waltz, Captain Blakely. It was very enjoyable.”
Fire sparked in Morgan’s eyes, but he merely tipped his head with apparent nonchalance. “You’re welcome, my lady. You know I’m always pleased to satisfy any whim of yours.”
She turned hastily to Lord Winthrop. “The music is beginning. Shall we go?”
“If you wish, my dear.” As Lord Winthrop led her away, she glanced back at Morgan. He watched them with a brooding expression that boded ill for Lord Winthrop. And perhaps her as well.
But she couldn’t just stand by and watch them come to blows in a public place. That would do neither of them any good.
“How do you know that fellow?” Lord Winthrop asked, breaking into her thoughts.
“Captain Blakely and I were introduced for the first time this evening.” Technically, it was true, for although she’d met Morgan Pryce, she didn’t know Morgan Blakely at all. But she intended to remedy that.
Lord Boring eyed her shrewdly, as if he didn’t quite believe her, though why he shouldn’t was beyond her. “I caution you, my lady. He is not the sort of man with whom a lady of your standing should associate.”
“Thank you for the advice, Lord Winthrop. I shall keep it in mind.”
Just not in the way he meant. All these cautions against Morgan were having the perverse effect of rousing her interest in him all the more. Everyone seemed determined to paint him a black creature, yet the more she knew of him, the more she saw an entirely different Morgan. It intrigued her enormously.
“I’ve been thinking about what you asked of me earlier,” Lord Winthrop said, as if he’d read her thoughts. “I do believe I shall come help you at your little Home after all. Your aunt seems to think you could use a man’s influence with your urchins. Teach them how to respect their elders.”
Stifling a groan, she silently cursed her aunt. Just what she needed—the self-important Lord Winthrop trying to take her boys in hand. Although if anything were to run him off, a day or two at the Home surely would. “Thank you, my lord. Feel free to come whenever you wish. I’m there every day.” She’d wager half her new fortune that he never showed up.
The music started then. To Clara’s vast relief, it was a lively reel that precluded speech. But it also made it difficult to scan the ballroom, which she did in every turn, looking for Morgan.
He’d vanished, curse him. After the dance was over and she’d excused herself to Lord Winthrop, she discovered that Morgan wasn’t the only one who’d disappeared. Lord Ravenswood was nowhere to be found. And even Morgan’s family seemed to have left.
When half an hour passed and she found none of them, she was forced to accept the truth. Morgan had escaped her without answering the rest of her questions.
Fine, let him evade her if he wanted. Because if she couldn’t get answers here and now, she would get them, one way or the other. Even if she had to corner the wolf in his den.
Clara shivered and drew her serviceable cloak more closely about her as she hurried down Petticoat Lane to Morgan’s shop. This was probably not such a good idea, coming here alone near midnight. But after she’d returned home from the ball, she hadn’t been able to find Samuel anywhere, and she dared not have any of the other servants accompany her while she went snooping on such a notorious man.
It was bad enough that she’d roused suspicions at the Home an hour ago when she’d arrived and announced that she was spending the night. It wasn’t something she did often. And when she did, it was usually because she’d been summoned there to deal with a sick or runaway child. It was rarely for no reason at all.
Nonetheless, one advantage to being in charge was that she could make seemingly arbitrary decisions without much comment. With any luck, the servants at the Home would merely assume that she was checking up on them.
She’d had a bit more trouble sneaking out to come down here to Morgan’s shop, but she knew the Home better than almost anyone.
And she had copies of all the keys.
What choice did she have, anyway? Having one of the stalwart male servants from the Home accompany her would have meant questions and protests. Two people would also be less quiet than one, so Morgan would have had fair warning of her approach. She certainly didn’t want that. The success of her plan depended on surprising him in the midst of his secretive activities.
So she’d had to sneak out alone. Thankfully, the streets were fairly deserted. It was too early for residents to be leaving the taverns and gin shops, and too late for any respectable merchants to be heading home.
Besides, the Home was just a cry away—if she screamed, someone there would surely run to her rescue. And Morgan and Johnny were undoubtedly both inside the shop, and they would help her, too.
Just thinking of how Morgan had vanished after their dance made her scowl. Why, he hadn’t so much as said good night! That only proved he’d been rushing down here to do something devious.
It was most vexing how he and Lord Ravenswood seemed determined to be mysterious. She’d had quite enough of their coy evasions and blatant attempts to either pay or frighten her into silence. She would learn the truth on her own, since they’d left her no alternative. If Morgan wasn’t at the shop, she’d press Johnny into telling her what he knew. But somebody would give her answers if it took her all night to get them.
Still, when she approached the shop to find it completely dark, an uneasy shiver crept down her spine. She’d expected lights and activity, not this utter stillness. She peered through the dirty windows but could see nothing, not even the faint glow of a burning lamp in the back. She knocked but no one answered, and a quick check of the door showed it was locked.
How very strange. Could their dastardly activity involve something off the premises? Just to be sure, she slipped around to the alley and tried the alley door. It was locked, too, and nobody answered when she knocked. Her blood began to pound. If Morgan wasn’t here, Johnny at least should be. Unless Morgan and Samuel both had lied about Johnny’s lack of involvement in criminal activities.
No, she couldn’t bear to think that. But where would he be otherwise? Could he simply be sleeping so deeply that he didn’t hear her?
She rapped more sharply on the door but succeeded only in making it rattle. No other sound emerged from inside. She held very still, listening hard to make sure.
That was the only reason she heard the creak of a boot behind her. Whirling around, she was struck dumb by the sight of a man clothed entirely in black, looming large at the entrance to the alley. Or at least she thought it was a man. She couldn’t see his face, for it was hidden deep within the hood of a black cloak that swirled around him with the faintest breeze.
With a heart-chilling jolt, she realized who he must be. Only one man in Spitalfields was known to prowl the night in such garb.
“What are you doing here?” growled a voice that seemed vaguely familiar.
She didn’t dare tell him she was here to question Morgan about his activities. “I…I could ask you the same thing,” she hedged, hoping evasion might help her escape the fearsome form.
He drew nearer. Now that she could see him better, she realized that although he was taller than her he was only slightly built. But that didn’t stop her from shrinking instinctively against the wall as he approached.
He halted momentarily, as if surprised by her fear, then advanced again until he stood a few feet away. She glimpsed his chin, but the hood hid the rest of his face.
“You know who I am, don’t you?” he snapped.
She nodded, though it was hard to believe that this was the Specter. His accent was coarse, and he didn’t seem big enough, yet she’d always heard he had a gentlemanly quality and was massively built. So much for pickpocket rumors.
“My business ain’t with you,” he said in that guttural voice that couldn’t possibly be natural. “Where’s the cap’n?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re here to meet him, ain’t you?”
“No! I mean, I…er…wanted to see…that is—”
His hand disappeared inside the cloak, and suddenly a pistol appeared in the man’s hand. Her heart thudded frantically in her chest. If he wanted to frighten her, he was certainly going about it the right way.
“Tell me where your friend is,” he demanded, “and I might let you go.”
“He’s not my friend!”
“That ain’t what I asked!” he cried, almost peevishly. Then he lowered his voice. “Tell me where that bloody Cap’n Pryce is, or you forfeit your life.”
“If I knew, I’d tell you, I swear. I came here hoping to speak to him, but he doesn’t answer when I knock.”
A low curse erupted from beneath the hood. He steadied the pistol, aiming it straight at her. Well, not quite straight at her. He seemed oddly unsure of himself for a man who’d undoubtedly used a pistol many times. The pistol wavered in the air.
“Now you listen to me,” he rasped. “I want you to give your friend a message.”
“Whatever you ask.” A message was good. A message was very good. She couldn’t pass on a message if she were dead. “Wh-what’s the message?”
“I don’t want him keeping that boy around anymore, you hear?”
She blinked. “What boy?”
“That boy of yours! You know, the Perkins boy!”
“Why not?” she blurted out, surprised that the Specter should even know about Johnny, much less care what happened to him.
“Because that boy’s sister is friendly with a police officer, that’s why! And I don’t want the magistrate hearing all the ins and outs of my business from a loose-tongued lad, you ken?”
“Yes, I ‘ken’,” she snapped. “But Captain Pryce can’t very well just throw the boy out.”
“He’ll do whatever I say. He’ll send him back to that Home of yours or to his sister. That’s what should be done with that boy anyway. He don’t belong here.”
Remembering how Johnny had insisted on remaining at Morgan’s, she flinched. “What if the boy won’t leave? What then?” Surely the Specter wouldn’t kill a child for so frivolous a reason as a loose connection between Lucy and the police. Would he?
“He’ll leave. He ain’t gonna cross me, is he?” The man loomed up close, brandishing the pistol rather recklessly before her. “Your friend Pryce won’t neither.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Somehow she couldn’t see Morgan bowing easily to the dictates of anybody, even his cohort in crime. And if Morgan wouldn’t do as the Specter said…“He’s very attached to the boy. H-he might not do what you want.”
The Specter waved the pistol in the general vicinity of her chest. “You tell him he’d better! Or I’ll make him regret it!” He cocked the pistol and added in a menacing growl, “And if you don’t persuade him, I’ll make you regret it, too!”
A new voice sounded from the top of the alley. “Damn it, Samuel, I told you two not to come back tonight—”
“Morgan!” she cried. “Run!”
Cursing, the Specter whirled to face Morgan, and the pistol went off. Clara watched in stricken silence as Morgan staggered back against the opposite wall.
“Godamercy, I’ve kilt him!” cried the Specter. “What have I done?” Then he dropped the pistol and fled the alley at a dead run.
Clara darted forward just in time to see Morgan slide down the wall. “Morgan!” she screamed as she raced over to him. “Oh my word, Morgan!” Her heart ground to a halt as she dropped to her knees beside him. “Speak to me. Tell me where you’re hurt.”
“Clara?” he rasped. “Is that you?”
“Yes, yes, I’m here.” Frantically, she searched his slumped body, trying to find where he’d been hit. Please don’t let him die, God, she prayed. “I’m right here with you, my darling. What can I do? How can I help?”
He lifted his face to hers, and the moonlight shone fully on eyes that looked surprisingly lucid for a dying man. “You can start running, cher
ie. Because when I get my hands on you, you won’t be able to sit down for a week.”
Chapter 15
…the clock struck nine, yet no Beast appeared.
Beauty then feared she had been the cause of his
death; she ran crying and wringing her hands all
about the palace, like one in despair…
“Beauty and the Beast” from
The Young Misses Magazine,
Jeanne-Marie Prince de Beaumont
Morgan could tell from the way she blinked that he’d surprised Clara. But then the reckless woman seemed to think he was dying. He should let her go on thinking it after the fool thing she’d done by coming here.
He’d lost ten lifetimes when he’d realized that it was her the Specter had been confronting, her who’d nearly gotten shot before Morgan had scared the arse off. He still reeled from his terror.
And the searing pain in his thigh. Grabbing her by the shoulders, he used her to heft himself to a stand.
She rose and slid her arm swiftly around his waist. “What do you think you’re doing? You’re hurt!”
“You’re damned right I’m hurt!” He steadied himself on his feet, relieved to find that standing wasn’t much of a problem. “And why the devil are you here? Don’t you ever listen, for God’s sake?”
“Never mind all that now. You shouldn’t stand until I fetch a doctor.”
“I don’t want a confounded doctor!” He could hear voices in the street now, people calling out about the pistol shot, questioning where it had come from. And the last thing Clara needed was to be found here with him at night. Draping his arm about her shoulders, he ordered, “Get me inside the shop before anybody sees us, all right?”
“I-It’s your leg, isn’t it?” she said when he leaned on her. “He shot your leg?”
“Either that or wild dogs ravaged me while my back was turned. Of course it’s my leg!”
She sniffed. “You don’t have to be surly about it.” She helped him limp toward the door. “It’s not as if I were the one to shoot you, for pity’s sake.”
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