by Deb Marlowe
She tilted her head, considering. “If she’ll have you.”
“If she’ll have me,” he sighed.
“Why should she?”
“Because it only took about a minute’s thought to realize that she was right.”
“Well, that is a promising start.” She laughed. “Please continue.”
“What she said to me, at the last. It shook me.” He shot her a pleading look. “She sees me so clearly—far better than I saw myself. And she liked me still.”
“More than that, I believe,” Hestia said softly.
“And I threw it back at her. The greatest gift I’ve ever been given.” He closed his eyes, though, and drank in hope along with her words. “It makes no sense, I know. Our acquaintance looks short from the outside, but it was . . . deep. True. It scared me, from the inside out. She saw what I’d been hiding from the world and laid it bare in just a few words.”
“It does sound terrifying.” It sounded like real sympathy. “My Callie has always been terribly blunt.”
“It’s one of her best qualities.” He laughed. “Because, don’t you know, she tossed out the solution for my problem just as casually.”
Should he go further? He gave a mental shrug. He was already playing fast and deep with parts of himself that had never seen the light of day. “At first, I thought there was no use pursuing it. Why bother, if I didn’t have her? And then I heard myself—and thought of what she’d say to that. And I knew.”
He didn’t have to explain further. Hestia was nodding understanding. “What will you do?”
“First thing—I’m going to get Letty away from Marstoke and turn her over to her sister. Again. And forever, this time.”
“A very good start.” She smiled. “I should be able to help you, there.”
He forgot and leaned in, wincing when his chest and shoulder reminded him of his mistake. “What do you know?”
“Now that Marstoke’s plans for Letty are known, they are impossible to carry out. But the wicked man has finally worked out just why she so closely resembles the Princess Charlotte. He’s offering Letty as a trade.”
“What does he want?”
“A chance to come home. He wants free passage through England, unmolested.”
Tru couldn’t block the cynicism that rose up, bitter in his mouth. “The royal family hasn’t done a thing for those girls. Why should they start now? The Prince Regent wants Marstoke jailed. He’ll never agree.”
“He already has. He doesn’t want the girl used against him, now or in the future. He wants to be the one shaping her destiny.” She looked out at the dreary, busy street. “Lord Stoneacre put the fear of God into them all, outlining what Marstoke might have accomplished with her. Also, the Regent endures so much criticism about how he treats the Princess Charlotte, about his excesses and the hypocrisy of his behavior and that of his siblings. He doesn’t want to hand Marstoke or his other enemies a martyr.”
“He’ll never just trade her outright.”
“You’re right about that. Marstoke never makes a move that doesn’t have three levels of play in it.”
“He’s here?” His mind began to roil. So many possibilities for mischief.
“Yes. We’re trying to discover what he’s up to. And we want your help.”
He nodded.
“There’s much to do. This is turning into a large enterprise, a concerted effort to put a stop to the marquess. Stoneacre and his men are working to discover where he’s run to ground. My own contacts are trying to discern why it was so important for him to come back, and what he’s planning next. Your brother is looking into leads from the papers we found in that secret office.”
“But he’s safe, if you intend to keep to the Prince Regent’s word.”
“He’s safe until we have Letty. After that . . .” She raised a brow. “As you said, he’ll never just turn her over as he’s promised. We want you to take point on getting her out of his clutches.”
“How?”
“Marstoke thinks you are dead. He won’t be wasting resources worrying about you. He’s also not wasting much effort on Penrith any longer. He’s left him in London and is using him as an errand and messenger boy. He’s acted as the go-between with Stoneacre’s men, setting up the truce. He also seems to be making arrangements for Lady Pilgren, one of Marstoke’s known co-conspirators, to throw a ball.”
Tru scowled. “Penrith should get out while he can. It’s a dangerous position to be in, having failed Marstoke.”
“And he’s done it more than once.”
“Even worse. He needs to come over. Offer him protection for whatever information he can get—although it won’t be much. His days are numbered if he stays. Marstoke doesn’t tolerate mistakes.”
“I know. Penrith is acting like a man who knows his end is near.” She paused. “Callie seems to think he’ll respond to you.”
Tru considered. “She might be right. I’ve been in a similar position. But he might also hold my lies against me.”
“Either way, you might learn something useful just in asking.” Her fingers tapped the bench beside her. “He’s at the Pulteney. What we need is a way to get you close to him, without anyone realizing . . .”
* * *
Tru had turned invisible. All it took was donning the uniform of a hotel porter—and it was as if he’d ceased to exist. A glance here or there fell upon the expensive bottle of wine he carried, but not one person glanced up at his face. He walked through the hotel without any questions and went straight to Penrith’s room.
The man grumbled through the door when Tru knocked, until he told him that he’d come bearing gifts of wine. Then Penrith let him in and went back to collapse upon the sofa and pick up the drink he’d already poured.
It wasn’t his first, Tru judged. He went to the sidebar, popped the cork and poured two glasses. Crossing to the sofa, he offered one to Penrith.
The other man looked up and sneered. “You’re a cheeky—” Sudden bright color flooded his face. “You!” Shock warred with fury. “You’re alive?”
“I am.” Tru thrust the drink at him. “But I don’t like your odds over the next weeks.”
Penrith ignored the offered glass. “Do you think I don’t know that?” He stood, anger emanating from him, and pushed Tru.
Tru didn’t retaliate or resist. He only winced and clutched the drinks wide as Penrith put his hands on his chest and pushed again.
“Oh, hell.” Penrith slumped. He took one of the glasses and drained it. “I’m sorry.” He poked at a red bloom on Tru’s white shirt. “I see you were wounded at least.”
“A right nasty one, too.”
“No more than you deserve, lying to us like that.”
Tru merely raised a brow.
Penrith had the grace to flush. “Oh, all right. We’re both despicable.”
They clicked glasses.
Penrith drank again and frowned at the wine in surprise. “This is far better than the swill I’ve been drinking.”
Tru shrugged. “I figured Marstoke was paying the bill. We might as well have the best.”
“Why are you here?” Penrith asked suddenly. “Did anyone see you? You’re going to make things worse!”
Tru set down his glass. Calm and steady, that was how he needed to present himself. “I’m here to get you out.”
“There’s no escape.” Penrith waved a glum hand. “Look at you, right back into the spider web.”
Tru couldn’t deny it. He was still caught up in the war. “At least I’m out of the line of fire—and I have a chance to get in a shot of my own. What do you intend to do? Do you think you can make penance by staying? Win back his favor with service? He doesn’t work like that. He chews people up and spits them out. And once you’ve failed him . . .” He shook his head. “Marstoke will have an accident lined up for you within weeks.”
Penrith shrugged. “There’s no escaping it.”
“Why not leave? Start over? Do something worthwhi
le with your life and let that serve as your penance. Stoneacre can get you a fresh start.”
“In exchange for what?” he asked bitterly.
“Letty Robbins.”
The other man slumped back onto the sofa. “Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t give you the girl. I’m just a messenger boy now.” He reached for the bottle and poured another glass of wine. “You must know he’s not going to turn her over.”
“It’s what we suspect and fear. And it’s why we need you. Help us save her.”
Penrith shook his head. “Can’t. Marstoke’s planning something big. Something . . . unpleasant. I know it’s all to happen at that infernal ball he’s wrangled Lady Pilgren into throwing, but I know little else. They tell me nothing now.” He sighed and tossed back the good wine like water. “There goes my chance at a German princess.”
“Come on, man. There’s more important things than your dreams of marriage. That girl’s life is at stake.” And Callie’s heart. And his own future. “You must at least try.”
“Why? So I can spend what’s left of my life looking over my shoulder for Marstoke’s assassin? You don’t understand him at all if you think he’ll just let me go.” He threw up his hands. “The girl is the least part of it, in any case.”
“Not to everyone.” He had to find a way to convince the man to help them—and himself.
“He’s planning several moves in that damned endless game of his. Whatever he’s working on right now, it’s something political and far-reaching. And there’s something about Hestia Wright, too. And that’s all on top of whatever he’s planning with that pretty little girl.”
“There are a lot of people working against him, in various ways. I’m to help the girl—and you.” Tru’s mind was turning. “But there’s nothing to say that we cannot overlap. Penrith—what if I gave you the opportunity to earn Marstoke’s favor—maybe even put him in your debt?”
The other man snorted. “I’d have to take a bullet for him.”
“I may be able to arrange that—or at least the appearance of it. Or something equally as significant. Marstoke has no idea just how eventful that ball is going to be—and this might just be what you need in order to break ties with the man.”
Penrith set his glass down. “Do you think it could work?”
“Who has been put in charge of Letty?”
The other man stilled. “Rackham.”
Tru clapped his shoulder. “Get me the information I need to save the girl and I’ll make sure you do Marstoke a good turn.”
“How? When? The ball is tomorrow . . .” He checked his watch. “Tonight.”
“Make your arrangements. I’ll make mine. We’ll meet before the ball—in the garden square outside Lady Penrith’s home.” Tru squeezed the man’s shoulder. “We can do this.”
The man shook his head. “I hope you’re right.”
Chapter Twenty
Pearl pulled out a stack of London papers and broadsheets. She’d had her Town friends send them. To my shock, they were all about me. About how I’d run away and left my family and all that was decent behind. About how I’d deliberately chosen a life of debauchery and sin.
--from the Journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright
Callie had dressed as a doxy more times than she could count, in the course of her work with Hestia Wright. She’d masqueraded as a governess a time or two. Once she’d even dressed as a nun.
Never had she looked like this.
Staring at her reflection, it was as if someone else looked back. Of significant note—her hair had been tamed. It taken two of the girls from the House well over an hour, and about a hundred hair pins, but her unruly hair had been swept up into a tidy mass at the back of her neck that somehow looked as if it had been crafted of rippling chestnut waves. A soft brush of powder had smoothed her complexion and just the hint of rose colored her lips.
She stood and crossed to the long mirror that the girls had dragged in. Now this—this was beyond anything of her experience. The dress was magnificent—and it was all hers—a gift from Hestia.
“I’ve had the fabric for an age. I saw it in Paris, and I knew I had to buy it, even though it is all wrong for my coloring.” Hestia had caressed the orange-red silk net when she’d come to deliver it. “I knew I was saving it for something special, and once I met you, I knew it was yours.”
“It picks out the colors of her hair like a treat,” Peggy, one of the girls, had sighed.
“It was made for you, no doubt.” Hestia smiled, but Callie saw the damp in her eyes.
“But how did you get it made so quickly?” Callie loved the simplicity of it. High waisted and low necked, it highlighted her bosom with a pleated, V-shaped fan. The skirt fell straight to a slightly flared hem. An embroidered border of rosebuds and garland decorated the bodice and was repeated at the bottom.
Hestia bit her lip. “I had it made to your measurements months ago,” she’d confessed. “I knew the day was coming when we would have need of it.”
Now Callie could only be grateful that she had. Alone at last, she watched herself in the mirror and twisted once to set the hem swirling. Outside the door she could hear feet hurrying up and down the stairs, hushed voices, slamming doors. Half Moon House was preparing for war.
And she was wondering what Lord Truitt Russell would think of her now.
Idiot that she was, she missed him. She missed his smile, the secret one that was for her alone, that meant they were sharing something hidden. She missed laughing with him, plotting with him, bouncing strategic ideas off him and watching him scoff—or occasionally raise his eyebrows in pleased respect.
She missed the feel of his hands upon her.
A knock sounded upon the door.
“Come.”
Victoire came in with a tray. “I thought you might like something before you go out, you hardly ate a thing today . . . Oh, Madame!” she breathed. “You are like a princess!”
Ah, irony. Callie smiled through it. “Thank you, Victoire. Perhaps just some tea.”
“I hope you are not nervous,” the girl said, pouring. “You look wonderful.” The girl gave a sheepish smile. “Everyone wants to see you and wish you luck.”
“They’ll get their chance. I’d like to ask you, though—are you happy in the kitchens here?”
“Oh, yes, Madame! Thank you. I’m learning so much from Mrs. Marepott.”
“Good.” She put down her cup and saucer. “Listen, Victoire. Likely nothing will happen here tonight, but if it does, do not venture out. Stay in the kitchens, or stay in your room and you’ll be safe enough.”
The girl nodded, her eyes wide. “You keep safe too, Madame.”
Callie nodded. Breathing deeply, she smiled at the girl and opened the door.
A smattering of applause greeted her, along with a collective sigh. Women and girls lined the stairs and waited in the open spaces below. Their faces beamed with approval.
Callie flushed. This was not the sort of attention she was used to, around here.
Below, Hestia Wright emerged from the passage that led to her small suite of rooms—and utter silence fell upon the crowd. They’d often seen the beautiful woman dressed to go into society, but tonight she’d outdone herself. She shone, a vision of ethereal beauty made flesh. From her golden curls to her jewels to her exquisitely fitted gown, she looked a storybook queen come to life.
Hestia cast a smile upon them all. “I know you will all be watchful tonight. Be careful, please, and take care of each other.” She beckoned Callie. “Come, my dear. There is much work to be done.”
* * *
Letty bent her head, her heart pounding while Marstoke’s hands hovered at the back of her neck. He finished with the clasp and she looked up to meet his gaze in the mirror. Her hand automatically rose to touch the rope of magnificent pearls.
“I’ve kept this piece a long time,” he told her. Memories lived behind his eyes—and they were not happy. “Only one other woman has ever worn it—and
she was someone . . . very special.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“You’ve trained hard and done well.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“This is the role you were born to play, my dear. Tonight you will help me to accomplish some of my most cherished dreams.”
She nodded.
He touched her shoulder, and then turned and walked out.
Letty stared at her reflection.
She looked wondrous. Truly like a princess, from her tiara to her toes, in jeweled and embroidered slippers. Years. She’d been preparing for this part for years, since the exciting days of her first real performance. Since she was pulled from the common green room and told a lord wished to see her privately.
A maid opened the door. “Lord Rackham is ready, miss.”
Letty stood. The greatest role in the history of theatre and the stage.
She took up her reticule.
Such a shame that she would never get the chance to truly play it.
Chapter Twenty-One
They’ve already labeled you a prostitute, Pearl told me. Why not be a good one?
--from the Journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright
Callie followed Hestia into the servant’s entrance at the back of Lady Pilgren’s home.
“Stoneacre has arranged for us to have full access to the service areas of the house,” Hestia explained. “With so many things to plan for tonight, he’s taken over the butler’s office as his hub of operations.”
“Does Lady Pilgren know? Will she betray us to Marstoke?” She looked in wonder at Lord Stoneacre’s men, in formal dress and the occasional brightly colored uniform, bustling right beside the countess’s busy servants.
“What great lady ever truly knows what goes on below stairs?” Hestia’s mouth twitched. “In any case, she’s on uneasy ground, as it’s become known that she’s acted as one of Marstoke’s allies. Tonight she’s treading a delicate balance between him and the royal family. She only knows what she must.”
Privately, Callie thought the lady was lucky to be on any ground at all, rather than tossed in a traitor’s cell.