And to never lay eyes on Lord Darkridge again.
~ ~ ~
Charles Montaigne leaned back in his plush, upholstered chair and fingered the silver coin in his palm, waiting. Moonlight streamed in the tall sash windows of his study, only a handful of coaches clattering past outside as the hour neared midnight. He glanced at his gold pocket watch while he waited for the gentleman who stood on the other side of his desk to speak.
“This coin is counterfeit,” the man said at last in a thick French accent. “The staff of Britannia on this side, it is too short.”
“Well done, Monsieur Rochambeau.” Montaigne nodded, snapping his pocket watch shut. “And it took you less than five minutes.”
The Frenchman tossed the coin in the air and caught it. “That is why Jean-Pascal Rochambeau is a very busy man, monsieur.” He smiled, his teeth gleaming beneath his gray mustache. “I have a keen eye, bien sur. And much experience in outwitting even the most devious of criminals.”
“Precisely why I have hired you.” Montaigne stood and passed the man a handful of counterfeit shillings and guineas. “Once I heard that you caught the infamous killer Maurice Delieu in less than a fortnight, I knew you were exactly the detective I needed to hunt down Blackerby Swift.”
Rochambeau studied the coins. “You say he is no longer working alone?”
“So it would seem,” Montaigne said sourly. “Swift and another highwayman attacked one of my coaches on Hounslow Heath recently. And they apparently didn’t discover that I had substituted these counterfeit coins for the real silver. Scores of them have been spent already.”
“Yet none of your men have been able to track down these dangereux outlaws?”
“No.” Montaigne grimaced. He hated working with foreigners, but he had no choice. Unlike the other civilized countries of the world, England had no police force. It was one of the reasons miscreants like Swift were so rampant. “I haven’t many men left, actually. Several more quit this week after two of my guards were shot.”
“Quel dommage, monsieur. I was sorry to hear of that.”
“There was no real harm done.”
“But I thought one of the guards was killed?”
“Yes, but Swift and his new partner didn’t get any of my money that time,” Montaigne pointed out. “The problem is, I can’t hire enough men to take the risk of accompanying my coaches anymore, no matter how much I pay.”
“And these coins, monsieur. Where did Swift spend the coins?”
“Oddly enough, several of them surfaced at one of my own gin shops. They were used to pay the debt of an impoverished woman. After many hours of questioning, she finally revealed everything. A new trust fund at the London Bank has been giving money away. Can you imagine? Giving it away! Insolvent debtors forward their bills to the bank, and the debts are paid anonymously.”
Rochambeau picked up his heavy brocade redingote and gold-trimmed tricorne. “Then I would say my first step is to arrange a meeting with the directeur of this bank.”
“Excellent. Do so at once. Inform my driver of the day and time and he’ll bring a coach around for you.”
“Merci, Monsieur Montaigne. I will find out from this bank how Blackerby Swift’s stolen silver got into their accounts. And before you know it, your Monsieur Swift and his new accomplice will be swinging from—where is it that you English do the hangings?”
“Tyburn,” Montaigne said, smiling in anticipation. “The pair of them will be executed at Tyburn.”
Chapter 7
Elizabeth could barely hear the nattering of her dancing partner over the loud music, and the summer heat in the crowded ballroom was even worse than the noise. Could no one in London find other entertainment this night? It seemed half the city’s gentry had packed into the country house of Sir John Faircroft, baronet, for the costume ball celebrating his birthday.
The light from a dozen crystal chandeliers reflected off the jewels and brocades of Turkish sultans, cavaliers, knights and ladies, and bird and animal costumes of every description. The air felt thick with the scents of wig pomades and French perfumes.
Elizabeth found the dance steps nearly impossible to follow—despite Georgiana’s valiant efforts as an instructor over the past few days—and the swan costume she wore only complicated matters. The heavy beadwork on the skirt threw her off balance, the feathery wings attached to the sleeves tickled, and the papier-mâché beak that covered her eyes and nose kept making her sneeze.
Thus far, the night had been a wretched failure. She had managed to get one dance with the host, but Sir John talked so fast and endlessly about the most trivial topics, she couldn’t squeeze in any useful questions. And Montaigne himself hadn’t attended—or even responded to the invitation, the hostess had mentioned in a miffed tone. The demands of his business apparently didn’t leave time for social niceties.
Elizabeth had yet to uncover a single clue about the transaction he was planning for this summer.
Feeling both discouraged and exhausted, she neglected to pay attention to the music—and stepped on her partner’s foot for the second time. She quickly removed her toe from the satin slipper he wore. “I’m so sorry, Lord… er—”
“Lord Endicott, Lady Barnes-Finchley.” He frowned at her from beneath the turban of his sultan’s costume, looking understandably insulted that she couldn’t remember his name after dancing with him twice this evening and stepping on him an equal number of times.
Just then the music ended. Elizabeth felt relieved as he escorted her back toward her companions. “Thank you, Lord Endicott.”
“No, thank you, madam.” He bowed over her hand before he limped away.
Elizabeth sank onto a velvet-upholstered bench beside two of Lady Kimble’s friends, one dressed as a hummingbird, the other as a Greek goddess. She didn’t know which was worse: dancing in the suffocating ballroom, or being stuck with Lady Kimble and her gossiping flock of friends for the evening. Georgiana had taken to bed with a bad cold, but refused to allow Elizabeth to attend the party alone. She insisted it would be improper for a young woman—”married” or not—to appear in society unescorted.
Elizabeth sighed. Sometimes the rules of the aristocracy could be deucedly inconvenient.
The women were so engrossed in their conversation, they barely noticed Elizabeth’s return.
“Can you believe the vanity of the man?” the Greek goddess was saying. “To take a mistress is one thing, but to flaunt her so brazenly. Bringing her to his own house, right under his wife’s nose!”
“Indeed,” the hummingbird replied. “Look at them dancing together. Does he think no one knows it’s her in that gypsy costume?”
Elizabeth thought of excusing herself, but was too worn out to hunt for an empty seat elsewhere.
“Well, now we know why Faircroft insisted on a masquerade ball for his birthday celebration.” Lady Kimble giggled, the sound muffled by the blue-and-green mask of her butterfly costume. “But, my dears, this latest liaison of his is not new. It has been going on for quite some time. Why, I heard that months ago, one of the chambermaids was dusting in his study, and a packet of love notes from his paramour fell out of a secret slot behind one of the paintings!”
“Faircroft is fortunate that his wife never bothers with his business affairs.” The hummingbird smirked. “Who knows what sort of nasty surprises she might find if ever she spent a bit of time in his study?”
Elizabeth was covering a yawn with the fan of white feathers attached to her sleeve. She stopped in mid-flutter, feeling a prickle of curiosity at the woman’s comment. If Montaigne’s solicitor kept his mistress’s love notes behind his paintings… what other sort of correspondence might one find there?
“Do excuse me, ladies.” She snapped her fan shut and stood up. “I think I see one of my Aunt Georgiana’s old friends. I simply must say hello to her.”
The gossiping women didn’t acknowledge her departure any more than they had her arrival.
Hopeful that she
might yet learn something useful this evening, Elizabeth threaded her way through the crowded hall, heading for the stairs that led to the rooms above.
She was at the edge of the dance floor when a gloved hand caught her wrist.
“Nay, my lovely swan, do not fly ’til I have had my turn with you.”
Startled, Elizabeth tried to protest, but the stranger was leading her onto the dance floor. From the back, it might have been anyone, dressed all in black, from his tricorne to his cape to his boots. But when he turned and pulled her into his arms, recognition and alarm flashed through her, mixed with some wild emotion she couldn’t name.
It was Darkridge, dressed in his highwayman garb.
“Don’t gape at me, Elizabeth. You look as if you think I might haul you off to the nearest magistrate at any moment.” Holding her close—a bit too close for propriety’s sake and much too close for her peace of mind—he moved effortlessly into the steps of a minuet. “Or is it my costume you dislike? Not imaginative, perhaps, but it was all I had on hand.”
“I wouldn’t call it a costume at all, since you are, in fact, a brigand.” Elizabeth tried to gather her scattered senses while not tripping over the steps of the minuet. “What are you doing here? And how did you recognize me?”
“I’m here, I would guess, for the same reasons you are. As to how I knew you, I asked some of the gentlemen if any had danced with Lady Barnes-Finchley this evening. It seems you made quite an impression. Mainly on their toes.”
“I’ve already had my fill of dancing, my lord scoundrel. Let me go.”
“No, sweet swan, I let you fly once. I’ll not make that mistake a second time.”
“You didn’t let me fly at all,” she corrected. “I left. Without awaiting permission.”
“Through a window twenty feet above the ground.” His scowl looked darker than usual, perhaps because of his black mask. “You’re lucky you didn’t break your lovely—ouch,” he muttered as she stepped on his foot. “Has anyone told you that you are a terrible dancer?”
“No, so far, no one has been rude enough to point that out.”
The musicians struck up a new tune, and he moved smoothly into the quick steps of a gavotte. “I suppose your other partners were too busy watching out for their toes to carry on a conversation.”
“Their conversation was quite enchanting,” she lied. “It was most enjoyable to spend some time in the company of such well-behaved, polite gentlemen.”
“And how surprised those polite gentlemen would be to discover that the lady in their arms is in truth a highwa—ouch.”
Elizabeth took small satisfaction in treading purposely on his toe this time. “May I remind you, my lord, that if you attempt to clip the wings of this particular swan, she will sing quite loudly and long about the surprising identity of a certain highwayman.”
“How fortunate for me that you, lady swan, are much better at keeping your beak shut than you are at dancing.”
He was whirling her so fast around the perimeter of the ballroom, Elizabeth was forced to cling to his muscular arms. The other dancers looked their way, nodding slightly and smiling as if the swan and the black-garbed brigand made a handsome couple.
She felt her cheeks flush at the close contact of his body against hers, but tried to ignore the unsettling sensation. “I-I suppose I should be grateful that you didn’t follow me to Osgood’s after my departure.”
A grin tugged at his mouth. “How can you be certain that I didn’t?”
“You followed me home?”
“The next morning. Only to ensure that you had arrived safely and weren’t lying unconscious in an alley somewhere… and to make certain you didn’t go out raiding again.”
She blinked up at him. “Most people have guardian angels. I seem to have acquired a guardian scoundrel.”
His grin widened and he swept her closer as the tempo of the music quickened.
She also noticed that he wasn’t holding her correctly—the position was backwards, his hand on the right side of her waist rather than her wounded left side.
He was being thoughtful again.
“There’s something else I’ve wanted to ask you,” she said, feeling a bit breathless. “Why did you send Quinn with a message for my friends, after you insisted you wouldn’t?”
He glanced away. “It seemed a harmless enough gesture.”
“If you’d like to make another kind gesture,” she suggested in a whisper, “you might give back my pistol.”
“Not a chance, little swan.”
She frowned, fighting a wave of dizziness. “I’ll have to buy another, then.”
“You’re not going to need one. I have a better plan to suggest. And I thought tonight would offer an ideal opportunity to put it into action.” He glanced over his shoulder, toward a corridor that led to the east wing of the house. “And I believe I finally see a less-crowded spot where we can discuss—Elizabeth!”
Her knees suddenly gave way and she would have fallen if he hadn’t been holding her so close. With one arm around her waist, he immediately led her from the dance floor and into the shadowy corridor, finding her a seat in a candlelit alcove away from the crush of party guests.
“Why the devil didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well?” Kneeling beside her, he started rubbing her hands briskly. “You shouldn’t be here at all tonight.”
“I was perfectly fine until you started whirling me about.” She snatched her hands out of his, already feeling better now that she was away from the stuffy, perfume-choked dance floor. She wasn’t so much upset with him as she was with herself for swooning in his arms—again—like some silly miss with no more backbone than a daffodil.
“None of your other dancing partners seems to have had such an effect on you.” He lifted his gaze to hers, his brown eyes smoky with an expression that made her heart give an odd little jump. “Do I make you nervous, madam?”
“No,” she said firmly. “No, you do not make me nervous. It’s… the lack of air in this place.” She opened her fan with a snap and started fanning herself vigorously, even as a secret voice in her mind whispered that she was lying.
There was something about him—a mysterious, most definite something. Whenever Marcus Worthington held her close, or touched her, or even looked at her, she couldn’t seem to catch her breath.
Or hold his gaze. “Oh Lawks,” she whispered, glancing away.
He chuckled as he sat beside her on the tufted bench.
“My lord?” She slanted him a sideways look. “What is so funny?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever met a woman who…” He hesitated, as if he couldn’t find the right word. “… amuses me as much as you do. Do you realize you say that all the time?”
“Say what all the time?”
“‘Oh Lawks.’ It’s rather old-fashioned.”
“I’m not the least bit old-fashioned.” She pushed her swan mask up out of the way and turned toward him. “Any number of people still say that.”
He smiled at her. “No one but you still says that.”
“I’ve heard people say that.”
“No one under the age of seventy still says that.” He laughed. “Elizabeth, that’s how I knew you were Blackerby Swift. It wasn’t only your lovely face and remarkable eyes that gave you away. It was your favorite phrase.”
“I see. Well, thank you so much for sharing your observations, my lord.” She waved him away with her fan. “Now please go. Your critique of my dancing and my speech is all very entertaining, but I’ve a better use for my time.”
He didn’t move. “I take that to mean you’ve found out something about Montaigne’s business transaction this summer?”
Elizabeth couldn’t stifle an exclamation of surprise. “How did you—” She stopped herself and carefully adopted a neutral expression. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Please, little swan, let’s not dance around the truth.” He lowered his voice. “I’ve known for some ti
me that Montaigne means to purchase an enormous shipment of gin this summer. It’s another excellent reason to stop your incessant raids. If you make him nervous, he’ll never risk transporting such a large amount of gold all at once.”
She almost groaned in frustration. Why did Marcus Worthington always seem to be one step ahead of her or one step right behind? The worst part was, she could see the logic in his argument. She should have thought of it herself.
“So?” he prompted. “What have you discovered?”
“Nothing that I care to discuss with you.”
“From the way you were heading for the steps when I arrived, I would say you were on your way upstairs. Whatever you were going to search for, we could find it more quickly if we worked together.”
Suspicious, she regarded him through narrowed eyes. “I have no need for your assistance, my lord. I’ve done quite well on my own up to now.”
“You’ve a strange idea of doing well if you think getting shot off your horse qualifies.” He leaned his head closer, his voice low and intent. “If ever there were someone who needed help, madam, it’s you. Which brings me to the plan I mentioned earlier. Instead of working against each other, Elizabeth, I propose that we work together. As partners.”
“Partners?” She couldn’t have been more stunned if he had proposed marriage.
“Yes. Working as a team would help both of us accomplish our ends more quickly. You have far greater admittance to polite society than I do. I’m more skilled with weapons and tactics than you are.”
As she recovered from her shock, she had to admit that he might have a point. “And how would this partnership work?” she asked dubiously.
“You would be responsible for this sort of thing.” He waved a hand in the direction of the noisy ballroom. “Social gatherings, dancing, gossip, securing information. I would be responsible for all activities involving danger and firearms.”
“Given a choice between dancing and gossip, or danger and firearms,” she grumbled, “I think I’d prefer the danger and firearms.”
He didn’t seem to find that humorous. He shook his head, his voice firm. “I am not willing to negotiate on that point.”
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