“Not at all, my dear boy,” Slough said in an uncharacteristically cordial voice. “It was most kind of you to suggest that I accompany you. There’s a new gaming hell not far away—shall we try it?”
They left, and Fen locked the door on them. A minute later, Harry appeared dressed in rags, looking remarkably like old Diggs. “I’m off the back way to keep an eye on Laborde’s.”
“What did you do with Diggs?”
“Gave him half a crown.” Which meant the beggar was safely out of the way, happily doing the rounds of the gin shops. “Your lady-love’s ready to skin you alive,” he added cheerfully, and left.
Fen hurried upstairs. “You can come out now, Andromeda.” He pushed the coats and cloaks out of the way and slid the panel open.
She climbed out, all tousled curls and hot cheeks. His idiotic libido reacted instantly.
“Good, because it was getting stuffy in there.” She set the knife down on the dressing table.
“Were you uneasy in that tiny space? Sorry, my love, but it’s well-nigh impossible to make a secret space that’s also comfortable.”
She glowered at him. “I’m not your love, and I was fine, thanks to Cuff. I didn’t like it much in there, but he held my hand and made me feel safe.”
Fen knew a ridiculous pang of jealousy—not quite as bad as his jealousy over Crockett, though. “Thank you, Cuff,” he said.
“My poor father,” Andromeda said. “I’m so worried about him.”
Not this again. “That explains why the fire was sizzling and popping. You have to be more careful about affecting it with your emotions.”
“I wouldn’t have these particular emotions if I could just send a message,” she retorted.
“It’s not a good idea,” Fen said unhappily.
“Why not? I merely need to reassure him. I shan’t tell him where I am.”
“I understand, but as I said before, it’s too risky. We’re dealing with ruthless people. One man has already been killed. I can’t risk the life of one of the boys who works for me.”
“And as I said before, no one at my father’s house will chase him. I don’t know what you’re worried about. By what I heard, Lord Slough hardly searched this room at all. He doesn’t really suspect I’m here.”
“Not necessarily. What if he’d found you, and you’d immediately denounced him as a traitor? He would have had to kill you, me, Witherstone and Crockett to keep our mouths shut. Even a professional spy would find it hard to kill so many people at once, and Slough is nothing but an amateur.”
“I suppose that’s so, but it’s far more likely that he doesn’t think I’m here at all.”
“Possibly, but please, Andromeda, humor me in this at least until tomorrow.”
“I’m not trying to be uncooperative,” she retorted, “but my father doesn’t deserve to suffer for no reason!”
Fen took a deep breath. He really, really didn’t want to explain, because there was a fifty-fifty chance his suspicion was wrong. She was still speaking to him, and if he voiced it, she wouldn’t be.
“This is the last place Slough would believe me to be,” Andromeda said.
Maybe a diversion tactic would work. “Perhaps that’s so,” Fen said, “considering you treated me like the low-class fellow I am.”
She colored. “You needn’t throw that in my face. I felt bad about it the instant I said it.”
Much as he loved her, he found that hard to believe. “Did you really?”
“There you go, misjudging me again. I’m not usually so horrid; in fact, my own crass behavior was what made me realize how much I didn’t want to marry Lord Slough. I didn’t like the person I became in his company.” She paused. “That’s why I went off to that little drawing room by myself―to have a bit of a cry about it.”
“Ah,” he said, still skeptical. “But why did you agree to marry him in the first place?”
“I had to marry someone,” she said. “I’d had several seasons, and Papa and Aunt Mattie went on and on about what a flattering offer it was.”
Admittedly, the encouragement by her father might just be ordinary ambition, but on the other hand, a connection via marriage might provide the perfect cover for espionage. Cover for whom, though—Slough only, or Gibbons as well?
“Not only that, such a marriage made sense,” Andromeda said. “I’d been training myself for years to become the perfect wife and hostess for a man of power and influence.”
“You had?” Which just went to show how unlikely she was to consider marrying Fen.
“You didn’t want me!” she shot back, and the flames in the fireplace roared up. “Hush, now,” she said, and the fire subsided. “I know, I know. I have to learn to control my emotions.”
“Sudden outbursts of anger, at the very least,” he said. She narrowed her eyes at him, and the fire gave a little spurt of annoyance, too. He felt himself reddening at the thought of the violent tendencies of his youth. “Yes, I know I’m not one to talk, but perhaps you now understand why I had to become a cabinet maker.”
“The emotions I’m feeling are important and necessary,” she said. “I’m not in some stupid fight with a bunch of drunken fools. I may be ruined, but I still have a life to live. I have to work out how to go on.”
A wave of love and desire washed over him. “My love, I―”
She put up a hand. “Don’t call me that. I couldn’t afford to believe in love then, if it was going to hurt so much. I’m not sure I want to believe in it now, either.” Her voice thickened slightly—enough to cause an answering tightness in his throat. “Being a perfect lady was something at which I could work and succeed.” She made a face. “Not that it has done me much good.”
“You now have magic,” he said. “It’s what you were destined for, you know.” He tried a smile. “I watched you melting the glue with a mere word.”
She shrugged, but he caught the beginnings of a smile. “It is rather fun.”
“If your mother hadn’t died, she would have taught you,” he said. “I expect you’ll sort it out through trial and error, though, as I did with my tools.”
“I expect I shall,” she said with a sigh. She sat on the edge of the bed. “I never faulted you for going into trade, Fen. I merely didn’t understand how you could willingly cut yourself off from the milieu into which you were born.”
“It was easy, once I’d lost you.” He paused, considering her. He couldn’t give her up without a fight. “Maybe I don’t love you—by your definition of love—but I do by mine, and my offer of marriage is still open. It always will be.”
She shook her head slowly, but there wasn’t much conviction in the movement. Sadness suffused her features; or perhaps it was nostalgia for a love that was lost—and might be reawakened. She swallowed, staring at her hands.
A knock on the door below interrupted their promising conversation. Fen went down, to find the urchin who’d been sweeping the crossing near the pâtisserie. “Lord Slough’s at Laborde’s,” the boy said, panting to catch his breath. “Mr. W. sent me to get you.”
Had Slough gone to bargain further, or to hand over the names and get paid before going to the gaming hell? Regardless, as long as Slough was at Laborde’s, Andromeda was safe enough.
Fen ran upstairs two at a time. “I’ve got to go,” he told Andromeda. “I’ll be back soon, and with luck we’ll sort this all out.”
He had to struggle to keep himself from sprinting to the coffee house, although he hadn’t the slightest notion what he would do when he got there. He couldn’t tackle both Slough and Laborde in public. If the handover of names took place, he would first have to kill the Frenchman to retrieve them. As for Slough...
Fen pushed open the door of the coffee house and strode inside, trying to appear unruffled. A waiter wielded a mop near the door; the smell of vomit curled into his nostrils. Slough and Crockett were seated at a table, coffee cups and a plate of pastries in front of them. But they and everyone else in the place were facing the back of the shop
... where Laborde and one of his assistants were helping a ragged man through the door to the rear. Harry? “What’s going on?”
With a fastidious curl of the nostrils, Slough said, “Some disgusting drunken beggar was taken ill.”
“He vomited right across the doorstep,” Crockett said.
“I cannot conceive why Laborde believes it proper to bring the man indoors. He should throw him back into the street where he belongs,” Slough said.
“Diggs is well known hereabouts,” Fen said. “He’s a likeable old fellow.” He left them to their mutual sneering and plunged through the door to the kitchen, where Laborde and his assistant were in the process of dumping Harry in a corner. “I’ll take care of him,” Fen said. “Diggs sleeps in my yard, as you know. Fancies himself a guard.”
“But of course, my dear Lord Fen,” Laborde said. “Your arrival is most providential.” The Frenchman’s air of confident deference showed not the slightest sign of annoyance or unease. A professional, this one, which made him challenging and frightening at the same time.
Fen hauled Harry up off the floor with the assistant’s help, thinking hard. He couldn’t take Harry straight home, leaving the conspirators free to make their exchange. He needed proof, preferably with another witness. At the very least, he had to know whether or not the exchange had taken place.
“Drugged me,” Harry whispered.
Fen draped Harry’s arm over his shoulder and propped him up all the way to the table occupied by Crockett and Slough.
He settled the barely conscious Harry in a chair, purloined Slough’s half-empty cup of coffee, and forced him to drink some. If he hadn’t been so upset, he would have laughed at Slough’s outraged expression.
“Bad coffee,” Harry mumbled. “Made me sick.”
“Nonsense,” Fen said and forced Harry to take another swallow. “Laborde’s coffee is excellent.”
“You may not have noticed,” Slough said icily, “but that was my cup.”
“Did I take your coffee, my lord? So sorry, but it’s no matter; I’ll stand you a fresh one. More coffee for his lordship!” He shook Harry. “What’s the matter with you, Diggs? You were sober enough half an hour ago. Are you ill?”
“Not anymore,” Harry mumbled. “Need some gin.”
Evidently, the drug hadn’t made Harry forget his role, but why would anyone drug old Diggs? Maybe someone had realized he wasn’t really Diggs at all—or even that he was Harry Wellcome. Damn. Harry must have made himself vomit, but by then it was too late to stave off the drug’s effects.
“Gimme some gin, m’lord.” Harry said, slurring his words.
“How about brandy?” Fen said. “If you can stay awake long enough to walk to the shop, I’ll give you some.”
“You’re going to waste good brandy on a drunkard?” Crockett said, but he couldn’t meet Fen’s eyes. Not happy with himself, and rightly so.
Slough put his handkerchief to his nose. “I do believe you’ve run mad, Trent. Get his disgusting carcass away from my table. Leave him in the street where he belongs.”
Fen had a feeling that if he left Harry, he might never see him again. Either that, or Slough—if he and his French friends knew who the supposed beggar was—intended to have Harry found alive with evidence tying him to treason.
He could either take care of Harry or prevent the exchange of names. Not both.
Grimly, Fen realized that he’d been outfoxed. He forced another swallow of coffee down his friend’s throat. “He keeps watch in my yard. To some extent, he’s my responsibility.”
A waiter appeared with a new cup of coffee for Slough. “Put it on my slate,” Fen said, and shot out a hand in time to prevent Harry from slumping nose first onto the table. Even if the coffee had some effect, he wouldn’t be fully conscious for a while.
For the moment, Fen had to admit defeat. He needed help and needed it now. Therefore, he must get another message to his father—this time from someone more credible than himself.
He contemplated his erstwhile friend Crockett, reluctance and downright jealousy eating at his innards. Andromeda, damn her, was right. Whatever Fen thought of Crockett, the marquis might at least listen to him.
Crockett’s utter misery showed on his face. No one likes appearing to be a fool. It must be particularly galling for Crockett, who had actually shown extraordinary insight. He’d probably had enough punishment, and Fen was forced to admit his own share of culpability for believing Crockett’s slander in the first place.
Damned if he wanted to let Crockett know about Andromeda’s whereabouts—particularly since she was so keen on forgiving the dastard—but he had absolutely no choice.
He lifted the sagging Harry. “Donald, old friend, help me get Diggs home, will you?”
Crockett raised his head, but only to narrow his eyes at Fen.
“I’m sure Lord Slough will excuse you,” Fen coaxed—and that was the easy part. Convincing Donald to help out might be worse than impossible.
“Gladly,” Slough said. “Anything to get rid of that stench.”
Crockett eyed Fen for a long second, then stood as well, dropping a few coins on the table. “Your servant, Lord Slough.” Together, he and Fen lifted Harry and draped his arms across their respective shoulders.
Outdoors, as they toiled up the street with Harry stumbling between them, Crockett said, “A cur, a laughingstock, and now a beast of burden—carrying a stinking beggar. My cup runneth over.”
“I owe you an apology,” Fen said. “Not only that, I need your help.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ANDROMEDA SLUMPED INTO a chair. Now that Fen had gone, she could think more clearly about controlling her emotions. Unexpectedly, Witherstone’s words had stung. Had she really been playing the fool because she was upset with Fen?
Perhaps, but getting Donald Crockett involved made sense, and she couldn’t have known Slough was about to arrive, and besides that, she should be angry with Fen.
But not uncontrollably so. Not if it made her do something stupid.
It was getting dark outside, so she went to find a taper to light the candles and then changed her mind. The more she practiced her magic, the better she would understand how it worked, and perhaps that would help with her emotions, too.
In any event, she was almost certain she could do this trick. She reached toward the branch of candles, snapped her fingers, and said, “Light, please!”
One of the candles flared into life. Not bad, considering she was a beginner. Mama, of course, had been much better at it, lighting a whole branch at once. How could Andromeda have forgotten all that, or rather believed it had been nothing but trickery?
“Thank you,” she said—one must always show gratitude, or the magic might turn unpleasant. Had Mama said that? Probably, for Andromeda knew for certain that it was true.
She snapped her fingers and asked for light again, then tried without snapping her fingers, and sometimes it worked and sometimes didn’t. Success seemed to have more to do with thoughts and intentions, but proximity to the candle helped, and movement—such as flicking the wrist or snapping fingers—seemed to direct her thoughts more accurately. She also practiced making the candles go out on request, which proved much easier.
She was so absorbed in lighting and snuffing candles that she almost didn’t notice the stealthy sounds outside. If Cuff hadn’t tugged on her breeches, it might have been too late.
Someone was on the roof outside the window! “Out!” she hissed, and the entire branch of candles guttered at once. She dove for the wardrobe, scrambled through the coats, and shut herself in the tiny hiding place once again. “Thank you, thank you,” she whispered to both Cuff and the magic.
Gasping for breath and yet trying not to breathe, she waited, listening hard. First came the scrape of the window sliding up. Low voices spoke in French, which, thanks to a persistent governess, Andromeda understood quite well. “I don’t see anyone.” “She must be here. You saw the light as well as I.” �
��She must have gone elsewhere in the building.”
Three voices, one of which she recognized with a horrified shudder. They were looking for her specifically―for no other female was likely to be here. Fen was right, and Slough hadn’t been fooled after all. Her heart drummed so loud she didn’t know how they could miss hearing it. She gulped shallow breaths, in and out, in and out, and waited some more. Why was Fen taking so long?
He hadn’t even had time to tell her where he’d gone. Was it to confront Slough or Laborde? What if he was hurt? Or dead? She set that thought aside as too horrifying to bear. Footsteps tromped through the bedchamber and away, then pounded down the stairs and back up. Now, judging by the tone of their voices, the searchers had become impatient. “She cannot see in the dark. She must be hiding.” “We have searched everywhere.” “The master says she is here. He will not tolerate failure.” “Un moment! This Lord Fenimore makes tiny hiding places in desks. Might he not make large ones in... for example, this wardrobe?”
Her heart leapt into her throat. She was trapped! Through the thin partition came the sound of cloaks thrust aside, and rough hands tapped the wood. “I cannot tell,” the searcher said. “Here, perhaps, or―”
“Let us just shoot through the wood. If she is in there, she will soon be dead.”
Andromeda muffled a whimper. She clutched her locket and remembered again that it held no more magic, no more power to save her in genuine need. The magic was now within her. No one would save her but herself.
One of the spies, the one she had overheard at the ball, gave an unpleasant laugh. “An excellent solution, mon cher, but the master wants her alive for now. Her continued existence is instrumental to the work of the stupid milord.” He tapped some more. “Ah, I have found it. I shall pry this―” He broke off, cursing.
“What is it?” asked his compatriot.
“Something bit me! A rat, perhaps.”
Thank you, Cuff! She mouthed the words, but couldn’t risk the slightest sound. Frantically, she tried to think what to do. Cuff couldn’t stave these men off forever. He might even get hurt; even though the men couldn’t see him, a slap or a kick at random might harm him.
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