“Why would I want to spite you, Lord Auberville?”
His intense eyes narrowed. “Because I teased you about not entertaining men? Because you want to prove that you are ‘as whole as any woman’?”
Mr. Morgan lifted his eyebrows. He stood and bowed. “I must be going, Lady Annica. Auberville.”
Tristan nodded to him and took the chair across from her. When they were alone, he swept the cards together and began shuffling, his attention never leaving her. “What stakes were you and Morgan wagering?”
“None,” she said. His unwavering study made her feel as if she had a smudge on her cheek or something caught between her teeth. His focus, his intensity, fascinated her as completely as flame fascinates a moth.
“I’d have taught you the game, Annica.” Tristan’s voice was low and deceptively soft, masking an underlying steel that told more of his true nature than his easy charm suggested. “I will teach you whatever you choose.”
“V-vingt et un,” she stuttered, thinking of another game entirely.
He dealt the cards, a hard glint in his eyes. “If you allow Roger Wilkes to call, you will be inviting trouble.”
“I appreciate the warning, Auberville, but I have always chosen my own friends.”
His expression darkened. “My feelings of chivalry for the fairer sex do not extend to choosing their friends. If I warn you of something, you may be sure there is a need.”
“Very well, then. I shall consider what you have said.”
Tristan leaned forward, his whole manner giving credence to his words. “He is a dolt, and undeserving of one as intelligent as you.”
“Are you protecting my delicate sensibilities? How very diverting.” She regretted her sarcasm almost immediately.
“Someone must, Lady Annica, though it would appear to be a thankless task.”
She glanced down, and the sound of Tristan’s chair scraping back as he stood caused her to sigh. She had made him angry. She was startled by the flash of pain that thought caused her.
He leaned over her shoulder on his way by and reached across the table to flip his cards faceup—revealing a king and the ace of spades. She smelled the clean woodsy scent of his cologne and felt his breath tickle her ear. “Vingt et un, Lady Annica,” he whispered, sending shivers up her spine. “This is a game of concentration and strategy. You are outmatched.”
Breathless, Annica rushed into the parlor the following afternoon and gasped, “Ellen! Say it isn’t so!”
“I’m afraid it is true, ’Nica. Every word,” her pretty blond cousin announced with a cheerful smile.
“So nice of you to join us, my dear,” Aunt Lucy said, patting the sofa beside her.
“I will support Ellen in anything she decides. For herself.” Annica glanced askance at her cousin, wondering why the demure twenty-year-old had agreed to marry a wealthy earl twice her years. Merely following her parents’ advice, no doubt.
“We can always count on you, dear.” Aunt Lucy smiled. “We have decided to make the announcement at a masquerade ball Friday next. I could use your help with the guest list and addressing the invitations.”
“You shall have it all afternoon and into the night.”
“Thank you, ’Nica.” Ellen sighed and put her cup aside. She folded her hands in her lap, a distant look in her eyes.
“Ellen, I had no idea you had fallen in love. It must have been sudden. Coup de foudre, I believe the French call it—the thunderbolt.” Annica paused with her teacup halfway to her lips. Her memory slipped back to her first glance of Tristan Sinclair and how the sight of him had left her speechless and bemused. She gave herself a mental shake and cleared her throat.
Ellen blinked. “I suppose I shall learn to love him. The match is eminently suitable. He is an earl, after all.”
“You are marrying Lord Dennison because it is suitable?”
“Annica, please,” Aunt Lucy sighed.
“Why, even Miss Jane Austen has said she would not marry without affection,” Annica persisted.
“And Miss Austen is not married, is she, my dear? That is what comes of being a bluestocking,” Aunt Lucy pronounced. “Please do not cause trouble for Ellen. You must not plant doubt where there ought not to be any.”
She ignored her aunt to go straight to the heart of the matter. “Ellen, are you pleased to be marrying Lord Dennison?”
“I…yes.” Ellen gave her an uncertain smile. “It pleases me. Mother and Father are pleased. Even Gilbert has said that Lord Dennison will make an excellent brother-in-law.”
“Because he keeps an excellent stable.” Annica sat back and took a sip of tea. “I can see how suitable Dennison is. Suitable for everyone but you, Ellen.”
“Nevertheless…”
“Nevertheless, if that is your decision, I shall support it. Lead me to the invitations, then.” She heard a distant knock at the front door and wondered if it was too much to hope for some interruption to rescue her from the tedious task.
“Thank you, ’Nica. I know how busy you have been,” Aunt Lucy said. “Lord Auberville’s sketches, your bluestocking league, the ladies’ marches. You really must be more careful, dear. Another disaster like that last one in St. James’s Street could see an end to Auberville’s interest.”
“He is not interested, Aunt Lucy.”
“Poppycock! I know the signs when I see them. ’Tis in his eyes when he looks at you. I have observed him across a room from you, and he is most attentive to your activities.”
The sudden image of Aunt Lucy as a social frigate, cruising through hostile drawing rooms, gathering information, assessing, forming strategies, made Annica smile, despite the fact that she was about to deliver a bitter blow to her aunt. “I believe he has decided I am more trouble than I am worth. We have vowed to remain friends, though.”
Aunt Lucy’s face dropped. Her plump hand came up to wave airily at the annoying little fact. “’Tis not too late to repair the damage, m’dear.”
“Repair?” Annica’s interest peaked but she was careful to conceal it. After all, she had meant to discourage him, hadn’t she? “How might such a thing be accomplished?”
“I should be pleased to assist you, dear child. If you follow my advice, your reputation will improve overnight and Auberville will be back at the door.”
“How do you know what Auberville wants, Aunt Lucy?”
“Auberville wants what all men want—a biddable woman of pleasing temperament and unchallenging demeanor.”
“Biddable? Pleasing temperament? Unchallenging? I do not think I could feign that.”
“I’m certain if you ended your campaign for social reform—”
“Lie? Aunt Lucy, he’d be bound to discover my deceit.”
“No, dear. I propose you actually sever your ties with that radical group.”
“Ah.” Annica arched one eyebrow in the intimidating manner she had seen Auberville employ. “Then you are saying I should compromise my principles?”
“Could you not just put such indelicate issues aside—”
“No, Aunt Lucy, I could not. What interested me—what made Auberville different—was that he challenged me and was not intimidated. In fact, it was his complete lack of outrage regarding such matters that allowed me to think that we might—”
“Ahem…”
Annica turned to find Hodgeson standing at the parlor door. “Yes, Hodgeson?”
“Begging your pardon, milady, but a message has just arrived. I have put it on your writing desk in the library.”
Annica nodded. This was likely from Charity regarding the night’s festivities. She would have to send a note by messenger begging off in order to accommodate Aunt Lucy and Ellen. “Thank you, Hodgeson. I shall attend to it straightaway.” She stood and hurried to the door. “This should not take long, Aunt. Ready the invitations to the masquerade, and I shall be back presently.”
Hodgeson led the way down the corridor and held the library door open for her, then stood just inside, chin
up, hands behind his back, and as stiff as a board. His stance and manner told her, as mere words could not, that he did not approve of the message or the messenger. The letter must be from Mr. Bouldin.
She sat and broke the seal. The writing was Mr. Bouldin’s. She scanned the spidery script.
Lady A.,
I have urgent news of an unexpected nature. Meet me half past midnight at the Bear and Bull Tavern in Whitefriars.
Yrs, B.
Ignoring the unspoken question in Hodgeson’s eyes, she went to the fireplace and dropped the parchment on the flames.
“You are distressed, milady?”
Annica sighed and closed her eyes, feeling quite unsettled. “Ellen has made a ‘suitable’ match, and all I can think of is how thoroughly I would adore making an utterly unsuitable match. The urge will pass, but pray there are no unsuitable men lurking about in the meanwhile.”
Chapter Eight
Raucous laughter preceded a group of men out the door of the Bear and Bull Tavern. Drunken shouting and good-natured back-slapping marked their farewells to one another. Annica shrank into the fog-shrouded alley, afraid she would be noticed.
She was uncertain how to proceed. Would Mr. Bouldin expect her to walk brazenly into the tavern and ask for him? Glad she had resorted to the artifice of the trousers that had been delivered earlier from Madame Marie’s, she tucked a stray curl, damp from the light drizzle, beneath her workman’s cap and pulled it down closer about her ears. There was nothing for it but to go inside. Keeping her head bowed and her hands hidden in her pockets, she pushed the tavern door open with one shoulder.
The dimly lit interior smelled of flat ale and unwashed bodies. This was not Mr. Bouldin’s usual sort of place, she was certain. No one paid attention as she ambled to the far side of the room and sat in the corner, where she could watch the door. She laid a shilling on the small wooden table in front of her and, when a haggard-looking woman came for her order, answered, “A pint,” in as deep a voice as she could manage.
Glancing cautiously around, she was dismayed that Mr. Bouldin was nowhere to be seen. Patrons came and went over the next half hour, but none were familiar.
Discouraged, she finally stood, convinced that Mr. Bouldin had forgotten their appointment. A stranger who had glanced her way once or twice came to her table, his eyes narrowed in the gloom.
“You waitin’ to see Harry?” he asked.
Annica hesitated. The man appeared clean enough, and handsome in a short dark sort of way, but she’d never seen him before. She sat again, resigning herself to this new problem. “I’m waiting for Bouldin,” she admitted in a low voice.
A small smile curved the stranger’s lips. He sat down. “I’ve been watching you, but it’s so dark in here that I couldn’t tell. My name’s Renquist.” His cockney accent disappeared.
Renquist. Mr. Bouldin’s partner. “I’m Nick.”
Renquist nodded. “Sure you are.” A gloomy look settled across his features and he took a long drink from his tankard before wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “‘Fraid I’ve got some bad news, Nick.”
Annica’s heart skipped a beat. “Urgent news of an unexpected nature” was the way Mr. Bouldin had phrased it. He must have sent word by Renquist. “Well?” she asked, sitting forward and lowering her voice to a whisper.
“Harry’s dead.”
“Harry?” she repeated.
“Bouldin.”
Annica blinked. Surely she hadn’t heard correctly. “Mr. Bouldin is dead? Are you certain?”
There was no joy in the short muffled laugh. “Oh, ’tis certain. Throat cut ear to ear. Blood everywhere. Damn me, but Bouldin was a cautious man. I do not know how—”
“Dead?” Annica repeated dumbly. A lump formed in her throat and tears sprang to her eyes. She could not comprehend the single word. “Mr. Bouldin is dead?”
“Look, Nick, we’ve been working on a few of your ‘projects.’ We’d trade off now and again so the blokes wouldn’t catch on. I’ve no way of knowing which of your ‘projects’ got him, but I’d wager good money ’twas one of ’em.”
Her heartbeat, racing a moment ago, stilled to an occasional dull thud. “My projects?” Her brain felt like molasses, thick and slow. She could not comprehend the simplest sentence. Instead she remembered Mr. Bouldin telling her that he’d had a few “near calls” lately.
“That’s our job, Nick,” Renquist added. “No sense blaming yourself.”
Harry. His name had been Harry. She’d known him four years, since the Wednesday League had formed, and she’d never known his name was Harry. “Did he have a family, Mr. Renquist?”
“Two grown sons. A wife. They’re a good lot. He had money put away, thanks to your commissions.”
Annica looked up, meeting smoky dark eyes filled with concern. “What is your given name, Mr. Renquist?”
The man hesitated and gave her an odd look. “Francis.”
“Do you have a family?”
“Never had time.”
The dampness from the fog and drizzle seeped through her cape. She shivered, feeling cold and dazed. “When did it happen?”
“Two hours ago. He found something and was going to tell you. He asked me to meet him this side of London Bridge beforehand so he could tell me what was afoot. By the time I arrived, he was dead. There was a note pinned to his coat. For you, I think.” Renquist pulled out a small scrap of paper from inside his jacket and slid it across the table.
She unfolded the paper and winced when she saw a ragged blotch of blood on one corner. “Stop hiding behind your hirelings. I’ll kill them all just like I killed this one. Show yourself, coward, or escape while you can.” She covered her mouth to stifle a horrified cry.
“I’m no coward, Nick, but this has me nervous. Drop it. Let this one get away.”
She nodded her agreement. “You must, of course. The threat is quite explicit about my hirelings. If the killer found Mr. Bouldin out, he will find you. But,” she said, her eyes wide, “if this is the result of one of my projects, Mr. Renquist, it is all the worse for that. Murder cannot go unanswered. My group and I must go on. We are committed.”
“Bouldin was my partner, Nick. Count me in. But I need a few days to put my affairs in order, if you know what I mean.”
She knew very well what he meant. Putting her own affairs in order was suddenly uppermost in her mind, too. “Of course, Mr. Renquist. Do you know how to reach me?”
The man nodded. “Harry told me a couple of days ago. He must have known he’d got himself into a snake pit.”
“Are you certain he gave you no information? A name? Which of the men he was following? Anything?”
“Harry played it close to the vest. All I know is that it must have been something big, and he must have got proof.”
“Thank you, Mr. Renquist. I am sorry about…Harry. I shall miss him. He was a good, honest man.” She brushed impatiently at the tears that kept rolling down her cheeks. “If there is anything I can do for his family, you must tell me.”
Renquist stood and gave her an anxious smile. “Have your driver take you home, Nick. You’ve had a bad shock. A hot toddy by the fire would stop that shivering.”
“Yes.” Annica nodded, aware of her trembling hands for the first time. How could she tell him she had no driver? That, in a fit of reckless impatience, she’d sneaked away alone, sublimely confident of her ability to take care of herself?
Had Harry Bouldin felt that same confidence until just a few hours ago?
“Bloody goddamned hell!” She was the last person Tristan expected to encounter. But that was Annica. Oh yes, the dark curls escaping a soft workman’s cap, the slight frame and easy gait, the determined set of shoulders and—had that not been enough—the familiar, firmly rounded bottom revealed by the damp clinging fabric, could belong to no one else. He’d committed that particular sight to memory and now would recognize it anywhere.
And what in the name of all that was holy was she doing in Whitefri
ars in the dead of night? After an hour of watching his quarry hide in an alley to watch the tavern, the quarry was about to escape. Tristan turned to see the man disappear around a corner. The Sheikh, meanwhile, was off chasing another suspect, so Tristan had to make a quick decision. Annica or his target? A glance around revealed that Annica was quite alone. Not even a coach.
“Bloody goddamned hell,” he muttered again. He started down the darkened street after her. As if to annoy him further, the rain that had been threatening all night began to fall—heavily. Despite the pressing nature of his business, he could not allow his future wife to roam the London streets alone after midnight. Knowing Annica, some disaster would be close behind.
And there, in front of his eyes, the next disaster loomed. A pickpocket slipped from the shadows and fell into step behind her. His hand emerged from the folds of his coat, and Tristan saw the glint of a sharpened blade. His annoyance vanished, and he launched himself toward them with grim purpose, praying he could reach her in time.
The pickpocket seized Annica around the neck from behind. But ere he could bring the knife to her throat, Annica swung her elbow back sharply, delivering a pointed blow to the pickpocket’s diaphragm. As he doubled over, she smashed her heel down on his instep. The knife flashed as the villain slashed a semicircle in an effort to clear an escape route. Annica yelped and leaped back, but the blade caught in the fabric of her short cape.
Tristan closed the distance to land one solid upward blow and lay the pickpocket out unconscious on the cobblestones. He barely spared a glance for the man as he stepped over his prostrate body to seize Annica by the shoulders.
The frantic look in her eyes warned him that she was still confused and did not recognize him. She tried to pull away, beating her fists against his chest and kicking at him.
“Annica! Stop! It’s me,” he whispered, trying to contain the small dervish.
“Auberville?” She peered through the rain and gloom.
“Are you hurt?”
She sagged against him, panting. “I think not.”
He stepped back to look her over. A streak of blood slashed across the vest and white shirt along her rib cage, visible beneath the cape. A tightness in Tristan’s chest portended panic. “Dear Lord! How bad is it?”
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