Indiscretions

by Gail Ranstrom

  When Barrett turned back to the play, Elise looked upward and met his gaze. For the briefest moment, he caught a hint of fire behind the cold exterior, then the mask dropped over her features again. He nodded, feeling awkward with the formal gesture, and she nodded back—as one would do to any passing acquaintance.

  Andrew sighed heavily. “Do not do this to yourself, Hunt. She’s lovely, but there are dozens of women more suited to the role of Lady Lockwood. I know you, and I know that you will never be satisfied to settle for seconds from any man. And, not inconsequentially, she is married.”

  “Only if one could call Barrett a husband.”

  “Nevertheless…” Andrew chortled.

  “I am seconds.” Hunt turned his back and walked away. It was true, but he did not like to hear it.

  The air in the mezzanine salon was thick with perfume, smoke and sex. The demireps were spilling out of their gowns and behaving boldly. A titian-haired beauty caught sight of them and smiled widely.

  “Lockwood!” she called in a husky voice.

  “Betty brings a man’s blood up, does she not?” Andrew asked over Hunt’s groan.

  The woman in question came forward and linked her arm through Hunt’s. “Have you come to play, sirs? Or have you come to play?”

  Andrew looked around the room with bored indifference. “We shall see, Betty.”

  “You know where to find me, gents.” She leaned toward Andrew and shrugged to give him a generous view of her equally generous breasts before moving off.

  “This was a bad idea,” Hunt said. “Barrett will not leave his wife to come up here.”

  Andrew raised an eyebrow. “Then do not turn around, brother.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “Lockwood! Here you are!”

  Hunt turned at Doyle’s greeting to find Barrett beside the chargé. “Ah, glad you could join us. You, too, Barrett.” He made a show of looking over Barrett’s shoulder. “And where’s your lovely wife this evening? I thought the two of you were inseparable.”

  “Thank you for always being so solicitous of my wife, Lockwood. She told me of your…friendship on St. Claire. But she has come home now and does not need you looking after her.”

  “As long as someone does,” he said evenly. He wanted to wipe that bloody smug look off Barrett’s face, but Andrew’s hand on his shoulder reminded him that he could ill afford a scene.

  Barrett’s mouth twisted but he said nothing. Instead, he turned to Andrew. “What have you got planned for us tonight, Mr. Hunter?”

  “There’s always the ladybirds,” Andrew ventured with a nod in their direction. “And there’s a cockfight in White-chapel. But, if you’re in a mood for something more exotic, I hear there’s a Black Sabbath at the burial ground in Clerkenwell. Your choice, gentlemen, depending upon your interests this evening.”

  Hunt looked at his brother in surprise. Though he knew their tastes were different, he had not suspected Andrew of being quite such a rogue.

  “Here,” Doyle said, eyeing Betty across the room.

  Barrett disagreed. “Clerkenwell,” he said, his voice betraying something dark and lustful.

  Andrew looked at Hunt for his opinion. “Clerkenwell,” he said. That should keep Barrett occupied until dawn.

  It was Andrew’s turn to look surprised. “Bless me, Hunt, I did not know you had that in you.”

  “Desperate times…” Hunt knew from Andrew’s grin that his brother understood exactly what he was thinking.

  Andrew stepped between Doyle and Barrett and hooked his arms over their shoulders. “Come along, my eager disciples. Shall we slake our thirst for more mundane fare before hieing off to Clerkenwell? We have time. Those satanic things never get underway until well after midnight.”

  Hunt edged toward the salon door. There was no end to the trouble Elise could get into alone. Thackery’s was not like Belmonde’s, where a woman could go from table to table unmolested. It was far more likely that she was trying to fend off some obnoxious would-be beau while her husband sported upstairs.

  And that is exactly how he found her. He came up behind her and took her arm. “Here you are, madam. Sorry to have left you alone so long.” He cast a cold stare at her companion, a green youth who looked fresh from the country. He would not be long for London if he did not learn to avoid places like Thackery’s.

  Wisely, the youth backed away, bowed to Elise and nearly ran back to his companions.

  Her eyes were wide and very green when she looked up at him. “He thought I was a…a…”

  “Demirep? Yes, that is the sort who frequent Thackery’s. Barrett shouldn’t have left you alone.” Ah, but he’d been wise not to bring her upstairs. Someone would have had her in a private room before she could have called for help.

  Elise blanched. “I suppose I should have guessed as much when he asked me how much I ask for my services.”

  Hunt chuckled. “I doubt he will make that mistake again, madam.”

  Some of the tension drained from her and she sighed. “I doubt it, also. You looked quite fearsome.”

  “I am quite fearsome.” He took her by the arm and led her away from the tables. “Barrett tells me you informed him that we were friends in St. Claire. I gather he was not pleased with this news?”

  Her lips twitched in a smile. “Why do you say that?”

  “He has warned me away from you.”

  “And yet, here you are.”

  “Here I am,” he confirmed. “Your husband was stupid enough to leave you alone. I thought you might need help.”

  He had led her close to the middle of the room, where a chandelier provided direct light. As he turned to face her, he noted another bruise at the hollow of her throat. Fury built inside him and he looked at the slope of her shoulders where they disappeared into her sleeves. Livid blue marked the spots where Barrett’s fingers had been.

  “Wait for me in the foyer, Elise.”

  “No…” Her eyes were enormous. “Please, Lockwood…”

  But it was too late and Barrett had gone too far. He took the stairs two at a time, entered the salon and spotted his quarry in the far corner.

  Andrew saw him first and recognized his mood. He moved away from Barrett with a curious lift of his eyebrows. A ladybird turned at Andrew’s move, exposing a clear path to Barrett.

  “Here, now…”

  Hunt seized a handful of cravat and slammed Barrett against the wall. An inch from his face, he ground out his warning between clenched teeth. “Touch her again and you’ll answer to me. Do you understand, Barrett? All I need is an excuse.”

  Barrett pushed him back a foot. “You might outrank me in the peerage, Lockwood, but you don’t outrank me in my bedroom. Elise is mine, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”

  “Brave words coming from a coward who abuses women. And there is something I can do about it. I can kill you, and I’d need damn little reason to do it.”

  “Hunt,” Andrew said, a hand on his shoulder. “Easy. You’re drawing attention.”

  Hunt released Barrett’s cravat reluctantly. “Remember what I said, Barrett. There will be no place that you will be safe from me.”

  Barrett began straightening his cravat, his complexion florid, but he did not speak again. When Hunt turned, he nearly groaned to find that the entire room had fallen silent and that he and Barrett were the focus of attention.

  Then a piercing scream followed by a loud shattering noise rent the awkward silence.

  Unwilling to cause more trouble with Barrett, Elise had moved to the perimeter of the main salon. She did not want to wait for Lockwood in the foyer, because she could not leave with him or William would pay for it. She would have to make Lockwood understand when he came back downstairs.

  An unnatural hush fell in the rooms above. Oh, heavens! Everyone would soon know what Barrett had done, and how Lockwood had responded. In the silence, she heard a light scrape above her. When she looked up, it was to see a potted palm hurtling toward h
er. She screamed and lunged for the protective cover of the columns supporting the mezzanine balcony. A cold rush of air brushed her cheek and the edge of the delftware pot knocked her left elbow as she fell. Soil and shards of pottery burst outward as the container shattered on the floor.

  She lay still for a moment to be certain there was not more to follow, and then pushed herself up into a sitting position. The shocked silence gave way to sudden pandemonium as questions were shouted and men rushed forward.

  She was lifted by her elbows from behind. She turned to find Lockwood, his expression a mixture of anger and concern. “Are you injured, Elise?”

  “N-no.” She did not have time to think before she was surrounded by Mr. Doyle, Barrett and Andrew Hunter, all talking at once, but it was Barrett’s voice she heard.

  “What have you done now, madam?”

  “Nothing. I—”

  “If anything—anything—happens to Elise, I will hold you responsible,” Lockwood snarled at Barrett.

  Heat swept through her. How humiliating to have her husband treat her with so little regard in public, and how bittersweet that Lockwood had taken that position. “Please, I am fine. Really,” she pleaded.

  Lockwood released her and scanned the crowd. “What happened?” he asked.

  “I… I heard a scrape and the palm fell. I jumped out of the way.”

  He looked down at her and she was startled by the cold calculation in his eyes. “Pots do not crawl over railings, madam. Someone helped.”

  Heavens! He was right. But who would do such a thing? Obviously Barrett had been with Lockwood at the time, and who else would wish her harm?

  “I shall have a footman fetch your coach,” Lockwood told her. “You should go home at once. We shall look into this.”

  “I will take her home,” Barrett interjected.

  “You—”

  “I am her husband, Lockwood. Best you remember that.”

  The crowd was growing silent again and she could not bear to have her sins exposed to strangers. “I will go with Barrett,” she said in what she hoped would be a reassuring tone.

  She could see that Lockwood was struggling to control his anger, and that Barrett was bent on provoking it. Although she did not want to be alone with Barrett, she knew she needed to separate them before the awkward situation could deteriorate further. Even Lockwood’s brother looked concerned.

  “I shall send you word of our findings, madam,” he finally said.

  She nodded and Barrett took her elbow to lead her away.

  Hunt found marks on the railing where the pot had been pushed over. The falling plant could easily have killed Elise, had she not gotten out of the way. The palm itself had been as tall as a man and would have provided cover for anyone behind it.

  Andrew questioned the men in the private rooms, asking if they had seen or heard anything unusual, but received only negative responses. Doyle questioned the footmen and other servants, and all denied any knowledge of the deed.

  “Could it have been an accident?” Andrew asked.

  Hunt gave him a cold stare.

  “Not that the pot fell by accident, but that Lady Barrett was the intended victim.”

  “It would be damn difficult to mistake her for anyone else.”

  “But who would want to harm her? Barrett was with us when we heard her scream. How many enemies could the lady have?”

  That was precisely what was troubling Hunt. Unless Elise was keeping even more secrets, she was not likely to have angered anyone enough to provoke this response. Unless…

  Unless the incident was somehow connected to St. Claire and the activities there. God, pray he was not somehow responsible for this. Bitter though it was, he could bear Layton’s death because Layton had known the risks and taken the job anyway. But Elise? She was innocent in all of this. How would he ever live with her death on his hands?

  “Leave it alone, Lockwood,” Doyle advised. “Perhaps we are making more of it than it deserves—especially if she was not the intended victim. Surely the more we persist, the more this will be discussed over breakfast. She has had enough notoriety, do you not agree?”

  Yes, he did. He searched the crowd a final time, certain the would-be killer was among them.

  “Who’s for Clerkenwell?” Andrew asked, rubbing his hands together.

  “Not I.” Doyle straightened his jacket. “Think I’ll go see Betty and then make an early night of it.”

  “Hunt?”

  He shook his head. In truth, he had never intended to go—just to see Barrett out of Elise’s way.

  “If you haven’t any further need of me, I am off, then,” Andrew said. “I believe I shall go dig up James or Charlie. They’re always game for a new amusement.”

  Andrew departed and Doyle excused himself to go back upstairs in search of buxom Betty. Hunt, however, claimed another glass of wine and went to stand opposite the spot where the pot had crashed. Uniformed servants were still quietly cleaning up the mess with dustpans and whisk brooms. Hunt measured the distance from the balcony to the floor below with a critical eye.

  Lifting the planter would have taken a strong man and hefting it over the railing would have required even greater strength. Hunt had to believe it had been deadly deliberate and that Elise was, indeed, the target.

  Rigo was dead, as was his henchman, Lowe, but the man named Saldon was not. He could easily have passed information to a contact in San Marco. But…why Elise? He remembered the incident at the picnic, where she’d been felled by a rock. Could someone have been trying to kill her even then?

  A shriek of laughter called his attention back to the balcony. Betty was leading Doyle along the balcony by the hand. They were headed for one of the very private salons reserved for trysts.

  Doyle, who had been elsewhere when Hunt confronted Barrett.

  Doyle? But again, why Elise?

  Hunt had been aware that someone was following him ever since he left Thackery’s. It was not unusual for footpads to lie in wait for a lone gambler to take to the streets. Late at night, senses dulled by drinking and women, most were easy targets for a spry pickpocket or more forceful robber. He’d turned a quick corner, pressed himself against the cold bricks of a building, slipped his dagger from his boot and laid his own trap.

  A wiry man dressed in black, with a soft cap pulled over his hair, came around the corner and attempted to press himself into the same shadows. He landed right against Hunt’s chest. Hunt seized him with one arm around his neck. The other pressed his dagger against the man’s heart.

  “Your business with me, sir?”

  “’Ere now, gov’nor. I ain’t got business wi’ ye.”

  “Then why are you following me?”

  “An ’oo says I’m followin’?”

  Hunt pressed his dagger through the cloth of the man’s coat and shirt beneath until he squealed like a pig at market. “I said. And I am never wrong.”

  “Easy! Easy, gov’nor. Some bloke just gave me a quid an’ tol’ me to follow ye.”

  A quid. Is that what his life was worth now? That was probably generous. “Just follow, eh?” Still holding the man around the neck, Hunt turned, pushed him up against the wall and held the dagger beneath his ear to keep him immobile. He ran his other hand down his assailant’s side and pulled a cudgel from beneath his coat. He slammed the cudgel into the small of the man’s back before dropping it on the ground. “And this was just supposed to be a friendly ‘hello’?”

  “That don’t mean anything!”

  Hunt nearly cut himself on the long bladed knife he pulled from a sheath fastened to the man’s waist. “And this? You just use it to pick your teeth, I gather.”

  “You can’t prove nothin’.”

  With not so much as a twinge of conscience, Hunt flicked his dagger and the man’s earlobe dropped to the shoulder of his dirty coat. He’d have screamed if Hunt had allowed him enough air. “I am not looking to prove anything, my good man. I just want answers. Think you can manag
e that?”

  He nodded, unable to speak for his whimpering.

  “Who hired you to kill me?”

  “Dunno. Gent like you. Didn’t give a name.”

  Hunt traced his dagger in a line across the back of the man’s neck toward his other ear. “What a pity that I am not satisfied with that answer, but at least now your ears will match.”

  “Wait! Wait, gov’nor… I swear ’e didn’t give me no name. But ’e said ’e’d ’ave more work for me if I did this. ’E said ’e’d find me if ’e needed me.”

  Hunt was inclined to believe the man. Still, “Describe him to me.”

  “Tall-like. Not so tall as you, gov’nor, but tall. Built like you, too, ’e was. I didn’t get a good look at ’is face. ’E wore ’is cap real low an’ ’twere dark.”

  That, too, was probably the truth. Only an idiot would allow himself to be seen, lest his hireling be found out and give a description. “A quid, eh? You came cheap. Will he want his money back?”

  “Dunno ’ow, gov’nor. ’E won’t be findin’ me.”

  Hunt pulled the man away from the wall and pushed him around the corner toward the lamppost. He’d turn the street rat over to the night watch and have him followed when he was released. If he was released.

  Barrett had sulked all through the coach ride, casting her dark looks. His silence was more unsettling than anything he might have yelled at her. His escort home portended unpleasantness. Not only had she made him an object of ridicule by prompting Lockwood’s confrontation, but she’d spoiled his evening.

  Although she had been planning to grant him access to her bed for William’s sake—she couldn’t think of it as making love—she would not do so tonight. In his current mood, he was likely to take his anger and frustration out on her. He was brutish at the best of times, and this was not the best of times.