A Devilish Slumber

by Shereen Vedam

  Phillip’s face grew grim.

  Tatters marked the changed expression. “I am not lyin’ gov’ner. I told ’em the warehouse was empty. The green-eyed one yelled at me to git off. When she turned to me, she lost her looks and looked like the devil, all bony.”

  Rose’s breath caught at that description. Was he serious? Did the woman’s face actually change? Or had it been simply the result of the man’s overactive mind?

  “What did you do?” Alfie asked, as riveted as Rose.

  “I got, o’course. I have me a wife and four little ones to think of. If two ladies want to argue at midnight near an empty warehouse, what matters it to me? ’Course, I have been regrettin’ that ever since. That black-haired one, they found ’er murdered the next morning.”

  “Have you told anyone else this story?” Phillip asked.

  The man shook his head. “No one’s bus’n’ss, I figured.”

  “Good. All of you keep it that way.” He tossed each man a coin, which they deftly caught and pocketed.

  “We are done here, Turner.” Phillip walked back the way they had come.

  Rose ran to catch up and they returned to The Boar and Cross in silence. Phillip seemed in deep thought and Rose was in shock trying to decide if what the man had said was real or imagined. Before entering, she searched both sides of the street for Trenton. He was nowhere.

  They had barely sat at their table before Phillip spoke. “She lied to me.”

  He ordered both of them a meal, a crank for himself and a beer for her. In one gulp, he swallowed his drink and requested another.

  Rose leaned back, now completely clearheaded and trying to make sense of what they had learned. Tatters had seen a woman meet Helen. Yes, the description of the other woman could fit her, but many women sported fair hair and green eyes. However, Tatters overhearing the name Roselyn, in combination with Helen’s note inviting Rose to meet her at that warehouse, made the evidence damning.

  If she were not aware of the truth, she would suspect herself of the murder, too. But she was innocent! Where did that leave the evidence trail? Someone had gone to a great deal of effort to implicate her in Helen’s murder. But why? And who had been with Helen that night? Trenton? She immediately discarded that idea. His talent was to make fire. So, that meant it had to have been another shifter. She had seen a few at Mrs. Weatheringham’s place and more were in the city who had not attended that luncheon.

  A shiver spun up Rose’s spine. Discovering there were others like her and her sister had been difficult enough to swallow, but if a shifter was the murderer she sought, how could she possibly bring him or her to justice? And at the rate the evidence against her was piling up, she was more likely to be the one on the hangman’s noose than the real culprit. That left the most important question unanswered. Why would anyone want to implicate her in Helen’s murder? Who could hate her that much? She had been out of society for three years. Her only recent acquaintance was Helen.

  The tavern maid brought their meals and Phillip set into his food as if he had not eaten all day. Rose’s meal of poached fish with fruit, on the other hand, suddenly seemed like the last meal offered to a doomed prisoner. She toyed with her utensil, pushing the bits of apple around her plate. “What do you intend to do, sir?”

  “My duty.”

  She swung her gaze up. He had said something similar about why he had chased after Eve. She swallowed the lump in her windpipe. “What, pray tell, is your duty?”

  His bland face could have been covered in an executioner’s mask. “She thinks she has me fooled. But I am no puppet whose strings she can pull.” He leaned on his elbows, eyes twinkling with devilment. “It so happens, that my fair Rose has a weakness.”

  Dread crept into Rose. “Weakness?”

  “She wants me.”

  Arrogant rogue! “You are certain?”

  “Oh, yes.” His dark brown eyes gleamed in the fading sunlight slanting in through the grimy windows. “I am her Achilles’ heel, Turner. I can use that to my advantage.” He sat back. “I plan to seduce the lady until she confides all.”

  “That seems risky,” she said through gritted teeth. “What if it is you who falls under her spell?”

  He laughed.

  She wanted to dump her stinky river fish on his head. He could not seriously mean to go through with such a vile plan. Had he learned nothing from their parting? “It seems unethical.”

  “Turner, my young friend, all is fair in lust and murder.”

  Chapter Five

  AS ROSE SAT EATING at the tavern with Phillip, his gaze travelled from the cut of her coat, which must be over a decade out of date, to her father’s baggy shirt. When his gaze reached her cravat, his lips pursed, as if in distaste.

  Rose shifted on her bench. She was more concerned with the length of time she had been holding her new features—for two stressful hours—than with the state of her clothes. Her skin itched and her flattened chest felt like a strapped drum ready to burst at the seams. She had never consciously attempted to hold a shift longer than a half hour.

  It was time to end this charade and go home before her face unraveled before Phillip. Except, how could she leave without trying to talk him out of his plan to seduce her? The bounder was right on one count. Their last kiss had proven that she was not up to resisting his advances.

  “Where did you get those clothes?” Phillip asked.

  “They were my father’s.” Best keep the lies honest. “You should rethink your course, sir. Lady Roselyn is highborn. Society would frown if you were to . . . to . . .”

  “Deflower her?” he said in a deeply, suggestive tone.

  Her body infused with a moist heat. Rose gulped her beer. It was bitter but did not burn like the crank, nor leave her as lightheaded. In fact, she was entirely alert at this moment and ready to lay into Phillip for coming up with such a dastardly plan. How could he speak so openly about such rakish intentions?

  The answer was immediately obvious. Because he thought he spoke to another man.

  Phillip leaned in and speared a succulent currant off her plate and brought it to his mouth. “If the lady is indeed our murderess, then society will applaud my actions. Besides, young Turner, what makes you so sure she is innocent?” He chewed on his stolen prize, his eyes thoughtful. “She has no chaperone. She apparently has no compulsion about frequenting unsavory places after dark. Those are hardly the actions of a lady.”

  “There might be a reasonable explanation for all of that.”

  Phillip stared out the window for a long while. When his gaze swiveled back, it had acquired a mischievous sparkle. Again, he studied her, while she worried at his changed mood.

  “Yes,” he said, “quite correct, Turner. Clearer minds in the morning must contemplate my dilemma. Tonight, let us celebrate what we have discovered thus far. I am to meet my cousin at White’s soon. Care to join me?”

  “At White’s?” The exclusive gentleman’s club catered to men of the ton. Things went on there that a young lady should not be privy to. “I shall pass. An early night for me, sir.”

  “Nonsense. The proprietor will have no objections to my bringing a guest.” His gaze again settled on her clothes. “You will, however, need to be properly turned out first.”

  “No time for that today,” she said with profound relief.

  Phillip jumped up. “Never put off ’til the morrow what can be accomplished today.” He strode outside and again attempted to hail a hackney. This time, he succeeded. “Do not worry about the cost. Consider it payment for helping me.”

  He rushed her into the cab. As the contraption swayed into motion, he detailed all she would need for the night, including, it seemed, a hair trimming.

  “À la Brutus, I think. It is the current rage.”

  Her continued objections were shrugged as
ide and too soon they were deposited before Westin’s grand foyer.

  A short stout man with tiny eyes greeted them. “Sir Phillip, what a pleasure to serve such a ’ero of ze land. ’Ave you come for the new coat? I understood it to be not required until tomorrow.” The man’s gaze flicked to Rose and his bushy eyebrows shot up. “Ahk!”

  “As you observe,” Phillip said, “this young man requires your services. May I introduce Mr. Benjamin Turner? This is Monsieur Tessyier, the finest tailor in all of London. We are off to White’s, monsieur. Would you be able to fit my friend with an appropriate wardrobe?”

  “Maintenant? But, Sir Phillip, this is a week’s work.” He circled Rose, as if measuring her every portion. His gaze settled at the crest of her legs and he frowned as if puzzled.

  Had she missed something? She scanned the Frenchman’s outline and noticed a slight bulge. Her eyes veered toward Phillip and her heart thumped in alarm. His tight pantaloons hinted at a shape she had not adjusted for her Ben persona. She thanked heavens her father’s breeches fit loosely, disguising what may or may not be down below.

  “Monsieur Tessyier is correct, sir,” she said. “We should postpone our trip to White’s.”

  “Non, non,” Monsieur Tessyier said. “You are a very lucky young man, for I ’appen to ’ave in stock an ensemble zat suits our purpose.” He turned to Phillip. “I ’ad an order placed recently but after it was ready, my customer, he advises me ’e must return abroad and cannot wait for zese clothes. Ah, ’e would not even pay me for my troubles. If Monsieur Turner will be so kind to follow, I zink we might have what ’e needs.”

  Phillip gave her a gentle shove and she followed Monsieur Tessyier into a parlor. Phillip was at her heels. Monsieur Tessyier sent an assistant to procure the garments in question. While they waited, Phillip mentioned his concern about her hair.

  “Oui, Oui,” Monsieur Tessyier said. “As you are in a rush, we arrange zat too.”

  Rose was outnumbered and in moments, a servant trimmed her hair, with Phillip and Monsieur offering suggestions. Throughout the process, she worried more about the next stage of her transformation.

  Phillip did not expect to remain while she undressed? How could she take off her shirt in front of him? The very idea was scandalous. Then there was the matter of her lack of a certain important manly attribute. One she did not know how to fashion.

  By the time they were satisfied with her hair, two assistants arrived and, on Monsieur Tessyier’s command, unbuttoned her coat. Rose slapped their hands away.

  “What is ze matter, Monsieur Turner?” the tailor asked.

  “I know,” Phillip said. “Young Turner is not used to a valet’s services.” He turned to her. “Trust me, for the tight clothing required for proper fashion, help is essential.”

  “I prefer to dress myself.”

  Both Monsieur Tessyier and Phillip frowned at her.

  Rose refused to be swayed.

  Monsieur Tessyier sighed and gestured to his assistants. “Very well, young man. If we are to know ’ow much adjusting we must make to zese clothes, we must ’urry. Vite, vite.”

  She looked from one man to the other. “In private.”

  Phillip raised an eyebrow, and then shrugged.

  The tailor gave a louder sigh and indicated a tiny room. As she left, he whispered, “Could the boy be American? They ’ave strange foreign customs.”

  Rose undressed. Immediately her chest expanded. She frantically shifted to keep her bosom flat. Once pressure increased there, strapping in her chest, she sighed in relief and slipped the linen shirt over her head.

  The soft shirt smelled of fresh cotton and fell to just above her knee. Its high points stabbed her chin. Next, she put on the light gray striped waistcoat and then knotted the neckcloth loosely, tucking the ends into the waistcoat. Last, she turned to the pantaloons. They were tight.

  So this is why a valet was necessary.

  When she tugged those on, they fit so well, they showed every curve and angle of her limbs. Her cheeks flamed at Phillip seeing her like this.

  One problem remained. The tight trousers clearly showed a lack of bulge. She could not step outside in this state.

  A knock came.

  Rose held her breath.

  “Do you need assistance, Monsieur Turner?” the tailor said. “Trust me, young man. I ’ave witnessed many a fine male form and not be put to ze blush.”

  Phillip chuckled. He sounded right beside him.

  “I shall be out in a moment.”

  Should she shift a portion of her thigh? That would take a lot of concentration to hold. The fewer changes, especially when she was this tired, the better.

  She rifled through her father’s coat and found a handkerchief. She rolled and stuffed it down. The pantaloons were so skintight, they worked to hold the attachment in place. As long as she did no strenuous exertions, this should work.

  She slipped on the evening shoes and the coat of sapphire blue. A quick check on her bosom showed that part of her anatomy remained flat. It spoke well that she could hold her shift for so long. With a satisfied sigh, she stepped out.

  Phillip was absent. Monsieur Tessyier circled her, inspecting from on all sides. He pulled here, straightened there. Then hand on his chin, he nodded. “Magnifique, Monsieur Turner. And no adjustments needed. Amazing.”

  Phillip returned to the room. He, too, had made a transformation. He looked breathtaking in a black cutaway style coat with a double row of buttons over buff-colored breeches, and stockings with shoes trimmed to match his coat. The two assistants, who were to have helped her, now gave his attire final adjustments.

  He waved them aside and approached her.

  She held her breath, wondering if she would pass his stringent inspection.

  “Not quite,” he said.

  Her chest cramped. Had she made a mistake?

  He pulled out her cravat and handed it to an assistant.

  The man ran off and returned with starched linen.

  Phillip’s breath fanned her face as he tied the cloth about her neck. He gave her a mildly curious glance and his nostrils flared. “What is that scent, Turner?”

  “Scent, sir?”

  “Smells familiar.”

  Monsieur Tessyier ran over and, like a dog rousting out a pheasant, sniffed around Rose’s neck. “Lavender! Too feminine, Monsieur Turner. I suggest something like the violet water that Sir Phillip favors.”

  Phillip stepped back and nodded his satisfaction. He indicated the looking glass.

  Rose approached it and a young man, presentably turned out in beige pantaloons, dark blue evening coat over a subdued waistcoat and smart white shirt, stared back. Her gaze rested on the intricately tied cravat. It was arranged clean and simply, yet in a sophisticated line.

  “Ah, Sir Phillip, perfection,” Monsieur Tessyier said.

  “Forward your account to my residence.”

  “Merci, merci.” Monsieur Tessyier’s smile widened. “It is always a pleasure doing business wiz you, Sir Phillip.”

  Rose glanced at Phillip’s reflection. His benevolent smile did not do him justice. He had taken a young stranger under his wing. Someone beneath his notice. Yet he trusted Turner enough to involve him in his work, teach him how to hold his liquor, and, at his own expense, outfitted him in fashionable wear in order to introduce him to his social circle. How many other gentlemen would show such courtesy to a stranger? Very few.

  This was the man she had fallen in love with. So this Phillip did exist. He had not been a sham. “Thank you.”

  TURNER’S SINCERE gratitude startled Phillip. The boy sounded surprised and appreciative that Phillip had shown him the merest courtesy. Had no one ever taken an interest in him? In many ways, the lad seemed such an innocent. Take his shock at Phillip’s plan
to seduce Rose. While he was delighted at the prospect of bedding Rose, Turner had seemed affronted that Phillip would even consider such a course of action.

  Rufus, too, had been naive in his teen years. Perhaps due to Phillip’s acerbic mother’s influence, Phillip had grown up almost too aware of people’s ulterior motivations, while Rufus seemed to believe the best in everyone around him. Every time Rufus’s father treated his son badly, Rufus had always found an excuse for the behavior.

  He was being groomed for an earldom and needed to be toughened up. His father had his best interest at heart when he compared Rufus unfavorably to Phillip at every turn. That skewed outlook explained why his cousin had been so shocked last year to discover the identity of the one who nurtured such hatred toward him and his family.

  During their childhood, Phillip had been too lax at safeguarding Rufus from pain, but perhaps he could atone for that failure by shoring up Turner’s barriers. In London, strangers were not always treated with respect. Especially ones who lacked funds. With a little guidance, he could ensure Turner avoided some of the more dangerous pitfalls of this Town. For starters, he looked forward to treating Turner with a visit to White’s. Its opulent surroundings should prove quite an experience for his new friend.

  Friend. That word had a pleasing ring to it. In his line of work, friendships were difficult, if not impossible, to nurture. In a more cheerful spirit, he bid the tailor good day.

  Turner asked Monsieur Tessyier for a quill and paper to leave an address where his old clothes could be delivered.

  Over his shoulder, Phillip said, “Burn them.”

  WITH FRUSTRATED anger, Rose watched Phillip leave. How could he be so considerate one moment and entirely dictatorial the next?

  Monsieur Tessyier, with a sympathetic look, fetched her hat and cloak. “It is for ze best, young man,” the tailor said. “Take your guidance from Sir Phillip and you will not go wrong.”

  Rose bid him good day and hurried to follow Phillip who was already in the cab. It had grown dark while they were inside.

  The hackney dropped them off on St. James Street. Before mounting the club’s front steps, she glanced at its bow window on the left. A couple of gentlemen, dressed in severe black, lounged there on chairs. They looked at her so disdainfully that she would have walked away had Phillip not grasped her elbow and urged her upstairs.