Mrs Dougherty gave her a searching look. “Yer not giving yourself enough credit. But I can see ye’ve made up yer mind.” She nodded. “Yer welcome to stay here as long as ye like, then. Just be careful.”
“Thank you, Mrs Dougherty, I will be. I promise I’ll help you here in any way I can. If you don’t mind, I need a little time to get back on my feet. I’m tired, so very, very tired.” Fatigue haunted her every waking moment, a fatigue that pierced her very bones, a fatigue she couldn’t shake.
“Of course, my dear, ye have all the time ye need. Just having ye back is help enough. I missed ye, ye know. Ye and yer twinkling blue eyes.”
“’Like the blue skies of your country childhood,’” quoted Simone. “Whenever you said that to me, it always made me feel like I came from the country where the air was always fresh and the sun always shining.”
“One day I have a mind to go back there. London’s nice and all but it can be a dreary place, what with the smoke and stench.”
“Maybe one day you will,” agreed Simone. She vowed then and there she would help Mrs Dougherty return to her country roots. It was the least she could do for the woman who had been kindly to Simone in her own way.
* * *
Temple buried his chin in his collar against the chill evening air, unwilling to admit the day had been a fruitless one. Women of all sizes and shapes had passed through his view but none had been the one he sought.
Daylight had faded but not the bustle on Bishopsgate Street. The lamp lighter had been by long ago and the gathering darkness had been thwarted by the welcoming glimmer of street lanterns. Couples strolled by arm in arm, carts and wagons clattered over the cobblestones and watchmen passed by periodically, bellowing out the hour.
“Eleven o’clock,” he muttered, needing a warm fire and a stiff drink. Simone wouldn’t be out and about now, would she? Perhaps he should call it a day and return at first light tomorrow. His stomach rumbled as if in agreement. He stamped his feet and slapped his stiff hands together, trying to get some feeling in them. Bloody hell, but he had had enough for one day.
He moved out from his niche, joining the flow of humanity. He had left his horse at the public mews a street or two away so didn’t have far to go. He adjusted his hat and jammed his hands in his pockets, using his arms as a shield against the bodies jostling around him.
“Well, if it isn’t Lord Wellington.”
His skin crawled at the familiar voice—the voice that had driven him away from London, the voice that he had hoped never to hear again.
The voice of Peter Mortimer-Rae.
Pretending not to hear, he hastened his pace, reaching his intended street in a matter of seconds. He turned onto it and began to jog the last few yards toward the relative safety of the stable.
A hand clamped down on his shoulder, slowing him. “What’s your hurry?”
He tried to pull away but a second hand joined the first, only this one grabbed his arm, twisting it around behind him. Pain shot through his elbow.
“I’m afraid you have the wrong man.” He didn’t turn around, didn’t want to see the hated cold grey eyes.
“Oh, that could be right, then couldn’t it, my lord. I heard you’re now the Earl of Leavenby. That’s right, that would make you Lord Leavenby, not Lord Wellington. My mistake.”
The sneering tone set up waves of loathing. Peter Mortimer-Rae, the man who had sucked a very vulnerable and very naïve Temple Wellington onto the road to ruin.
“What do you want?” Temple demanded. “I have nothing to say to you.” He stood stock still to avoid any pull on the elbow twisted back at an unnatural angle.
“Is that how you speak to old friends, my lord?”
“I do not consider you a friend.” He deliberately made his voice cold.
“Really.” The other man clicked his tongue. “And here I thought we had a good friendship. I’m disappointed in you, my lord.”
“Release me.” Temple ordered, knowing full well he wouldn’t be but hoping that if he stalled along enough, a watchman might pass by and come to his aid.
“You think you can order me about like the lackeys that run your estate and your house? I think not.” The man pulled on Temple’s arm, the movement sending spears of pain up into his shoulder.
“The lackeys that run my house are good, decent people. Unlike yourself.”
“Oh, now you seek to insult me? Really, my lord Leavenby, time has changed you.” Mortimer-Rae leaned into him to whisper in his ear. “Not for the better, I might add.”
“I suppose that would be a matter of opinion.”
“Actually, your opinion doesn’t really matter to me.” Temple felt the other man shrug. “What matters to me is the bit of unfinished business we have between us.”
“We have no business together. You and I are through.”
“Is that so? I wager others would not be so quick to agree with you. Come, we’ve wasted enough time standing here in idle chit chat. I should like proper compensation for the package you stole from me.”
Pain shot up Temple’s arm again as his companion manoeuvred him into a dark alley beside the mews. Several shadows moved to surround him, familiar shadows, the shadows of Mortimer-Rae’s henchmen.
The unmistakable prickle of fear raced over Temple’s skull and he began to struggle, ignoring the throbbing in his arm.
“I don’t have it,” he snarled, impotent rage burning in his breast. “Unhand me.”
He lashed back with one booted foot, colliding heavily with what he surmised to be a shin. He took grim satisfaction in the corresponding grunt of pain but his satisfaction was short-lived.
An explosion of stars ricocheted before his eyes and all went dark.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Tedham?” The querulous voice resounded through the grand entrance hall of the Leavenby townhouse as Lady Frederica picked her way down the grand staircase. “Have you word of my son?”
“No, my lady.” The butler stood at the bottom, watching his mistress conquer a step at a time, railing in one hand and walking stick in the other. “May I help you, my lady?”
“No, on no, thank you, Tedham,” she snapped. “I am more than capable.”
“Very well.” Tedham bowed, not wanting to rouse his lady’s temper any more than it already was.
“What of Lady Joanna?” The dowager countess puffed once she reached the ground floor. “Has she word of him?”
“I think not, my lady. Shall I fetch her for you?”
“Yes, if you please, Tedham. Send her to the sitting room.” She started to limp away then turned back. “Have you seen that Runner that Temple engaged?”
“I do believe he will be coming by today.”
“Yes, well, when he does, send him in to me. I wish to speak with him.”
“Of course, my lady.”
A very resigned Tedham watched his mistress make her laborious way toward the sitting room and, no doubt, her favourite settee.
Temple’s disappearance two days ago coupled with his unseemly marriage had sent the dowager countess into a funk such as he had never seen. Shaking his head, he walked away to ring for the Lady Joanna. Lord Temple couldn’t return soon enough, in his opinion.
* * *
“You sent for me, Lady Frederica?” Lady Joanna bustled over to sit in the armchair opposite the settee, needlework in one hand, pattern in the other. She plopped herself down and held out the linen she was working on. “What do you think, is that not a lovely lavender shade for the violets in this piece?”
“What? Oh yes, lovely.” Lady Frederica barely deigned to look. “I didn’t call you here to discuss your latest project. It’s about Temple.”
“What about him?” Joanna was cautious, knowing that Temple and his mother had been at constant odds since his return.
Odds that had reached a peak after the scene that had marred Lady Belmont’s ball. All London had been a twitter over it, so much so Joanna sincerely regretted not being there to
witness it for herself.
“Temple has disappeared. He left two days ago in search of the baggage he claims as wife but he hasn’t returned.”
“Oh, you know Temple. No doubt he has holed up in some club somewhere to get his bearings. I shan’t worry about him if I were you.”
Lady Frederica sent her a piercing glance. “That is uncharacteristically callous of you.”
“All I know, he was distraught over Simone’s disappearance. If he is searching for her, doubtless he doesn’t wish to waste time returning home each night.”
“Well, he didn’t do that for the first week. He was home every evening while he sent the Bow Street Runners out to look.”
“They didn’t find her, did they? I expect he has taken matters into his own hands.”
“Excuse me, my lady.” Tedham knocked before shuffling into the room. “Constable Wyndham Jones is here.”
“What? He is here already? Yes, send him in, please Tedham.”
Within a minute or two, an obviously uncomfortable constable stood pinned in the gaze of a formidable Lady Frederica and to a lesser extent, the interested gaze of Lady Joanna.
“He’s not here?” he stammered in response to the dowager countess’ query. “What a shame, I found something of his wife.” He held up a pair of ivory slippers and Simone’s ivory gown, or what was left of it. The beading and feathers had been removed, leaving only the tea stain as identification.
“Why yes, I believe that is hers,” said Lady Frederica, eyes narrowed. “Where did you find it?”
“In a pawn shop down in Cheapside. The shop’s owner said a young woman had brought it in and when I asked him to describe her, he said she had blonde hair and blue eyes.” He shrugged. “It had to be her, my lady. Apparently she wore a gold signet ring which was much more to the shop owner’s liking. She denied him however, telling him it held special meaning for her and was not available for pawn.”
“That’s odd. I know that piece, it’s very valuable.”
“Therefore we know she was not after money. She sought to get rid of the dress,” said Lady Joanna. “Otherwise, why keep the ring?”
“Why, indeed,” muttered Lady Frederica, unwilling to let go of her image of Simone as a money grubbing tart. “What of my son?” She changed the subject.
“What of your son,” asked the surprised constable, “Is he not here? I was scheduled to report to him today.”
“No, he left two days ago to search for his wife. We have seen neither hide nor hair of him since.”
“Why, I was here two days ago to report. He didn’t mention anything to me about searching for Lady Leavenby.”
“No? Then we must assume it was a hasty decision on his part. Where do you think he would go?”
“Well, if it was me, I would return to the only London home his wife has ever known. The workhouse on Bishopsgate Street.”
Lady Frederica inhaled sharply at this tidbit. The chit had grown up in unsavoury surroundings. Hardly surprising considering her outburst at the ball.
As much as Frederica wanted to gloat over the fact her suspicions had been correct, she needed to focus on the matter at hand—Temple, the current Earl of Leavenby, was missing. “May I engage you to expand your search to include my son?”
“Of course, my lady.” A visibly pleased Constable Wyndham Jones bowed. “It would be my pleasure.”
“And if I’m paying you,” she added, reaching with her walking stick to poke him in the midriff, “I shall expect you to report daily.”
“Nothing would please me more, my lady.” The constable bowed.
“Very well, you are excused.”
“Do you think he will find Temple?” Joanna waited until the constable had left the room before posing the question.
“I don’t know. We shall just have to hope for the best, won’t we?”
Joanna darted a glance at Lady Frederica. Did she imagine it, or was there a hint of capitulation in the usually distant voice?
* * *
Easy, ridiculously easy, thought Simone, pocketing the coins she had spirited from an unsuspecting gent while he watched a couple of young lads engaged in fisticuffs. A slight jostle as she pushed her way past him to hide the hand slipped into his pocket, a wide-eyed innocent glance and a heartfelt “I am so sorry” when the frowning gentleman looked her way and then she was on her way, no one the wiser. He wouldn’t know until he reached home that he had even been picked.
Oy, Simone, you are the best, she congratulated herself, simply the best.
She continued down the crowded street, darting around the corner into a lane leading to the customs houses down by the Thames. Counting coins in her mind, she didn’t see the man lounging in the door of the Royal Swan until he stepped out in front of her, scaring her half out of her wits.
“Mona, how ye been?” Gentry Ted adjusted his cravat and swept her a bow. “I heard ye were back on the streets but I didn’t believe it. To tell the truth, I didn’t think ye would leave the rum situation ye found for yourself.”
“Ted! Whew, you gave me a start.” She couldn’t hide the pleasure in her voice. “But if you knew I was back working, why didn’t you stop by?” She deliberately ignored his reference to her “rum situation”. It really was none of his business.
“Because that Mrs Dougherty runs a tight ship. She don’t like me coming around. Thinks I’ll be a bad influence on the residents.” Gentry Ted winked. “I only influence the ones wanting to be influenced.”
Simone laughed. “I suppose you would be referring to me. You know it was the only way to support myself without giving in to some man’s advances.”
“Is that still holding true for ye then? About the unwelcome advances, I mean.”
Her laughter died. “I suppose it is.” Images of Temple flooded her mind and with great resolve, she pushed them away.
He was gone. To all intents and purposes, he was dead to her. She closed her eyes and swallowed hard against the lump that rose in her throat at the thought of him.
“Mona, are ye well?”
“Aye.” She nodded. “I am. Just a memory that had no right popping into my head.”
“Ye look like ye could use a pint. Here, let’s go inside and have one. Talk about old times.”
“What? Oh. Certainly.” She trailed after him into the crowded public house.
He headed for the farthest, darkest corner; she had no choice but to follow.
“You’re a careful one, Ted.” She settled onto the stool he pulled out for her. “But you’ve never been on the wrong side of a jail cell door, have you?”
“Aye,” he boasted, “never been nabbed for nothing.” He signalled to the blowsy bar maid and sat down. “Ye’ve changed,” he commented, squinting at her. “Not just your talk and your clothes.” He pointed to the fashionable outfit she wore—a moss green muslin gown with a matching velvet spencer and fringed bonnet.
“It’s easier to get closer to my marks if I’m nicely dressed.”
He let loose an appreciative guffaw then slipped into silence, searching her face with perceptive eyes before speaking again. “Do ye know how ye’ve changed the most?”
She shook her head.
“You’re sadder.” And he punctuated it with an index finger held up like a lone sentinel.
“Am I?” She pasted an artificial smile to her face. “I don’t think so.”
“Aye, you’re sadder. It’s to do with your fancy gent, ain’t it?” he said shrewdly.
She gave up trying to pretend. “Yes.” Her shoulders sagged and she propped her elbows on the upended barrel that served as table.
“Tell me about him.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Start at the beginning.” He signalled for a second pint. “I can tell this is going to be a long story. May as well make myself comfortable.” He leaned forward. “Now, start.”
“The watch was chasing me. I hid in his trunk. He found me before he set sail. He was going to Canada.
I asked him to take me with him. He said yes.” She recited it as if she had said it a hundred times. Which she had, trying to make sense of it all.
“Ye’ve been in Canada?” Gentry Ted’s eyes were round, matched by the ‘O’ of his mouth.
“Yes.” She nodded, memories flooding back. Oy, why had she agreed to talk to Ted? It didn’t help, rather, it aggravated the ache in her heart as if a tiny dagger embedded within it had been twisted.
She clamped shut her mouth to stop from bawling. She couldn’t go on, Ted would understand.
“Tell me his name,” he suggested. “Forget the rest, just tell me who he is. Maybe I can help or something.”
She looked at him, his concerned visage distorted by her welling tears. Concern for her. The tears started to fall. “Lord Wellington,” she choked out, “Lord Temple Wellington, the Earl of Leavenby.”
“Lord Wellington, why does that name sound so familiar to me?” He tapped his fingers on the barrel table. “Lord Wellington, Lord Wellington.” Recognition flooded his eyes. “Ye don’t mean to say you’re married to Lord Scoundrel?”
“Lord Scoundrel?” The name puzzled her. She had overheard it at the ball that evening. “How do you know of Lord Scoundrel?”
“Only that he was tied up with Peter Mortimer-Rae. That one, he’s nasty. Your lord was in over his head right from the start.”
“What did he do?” Interest flashed through her; she was on the verge of discovering the secret in Temple’s life.
“Lord Wellington was the bully cock of the gang. Being as he was gentry and all, he could go into any of the men’s fancy clubs. He’d find a likely mark with a fat pocket, pick a quarrel and when they stepped outside to fight, Mortimer-Rae’s crew would be waiting to rob the poor fellow.”
He paused to slurp some ale, swilling it in his mouth before swallowing it. “Worked fine until one day he picked a quarrel with the wrong gent. This one fought back and he was killed in the scuffle. Mortimer-Rae’s cronies ran off, leaving your lord to deal with it. With a smooth tongue and a bit of greasing the right palms, Wellington managed to place the blame on Mortimer-Rae, who didn’t take too kindly to it even if it was true. He swore to kill Wellington. Wellington disappeared but before he did, he nicked something that belonged to Mortimer-Rae. He’s got a long memory, that one.”
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