by Donna Hatch
“Indeed.” His impassive voice and expression revealed nothing of his inner thoughts.
She put a hand on his arm. “Am I meddling?”
His face softened. “No, princess. I know your heart is in the right place. We’ll speak of this later.”
Papa’s much younger sister, Aunt Ruby, came next. Though it’d been over a year since Ruby’s husband had died, it still surprised Jocelyn to see her aunt without Uncle Arthur at her side. Her aunt, only ten years her senior, often got mistaken for Jocelyn’s sister due to her youthful face and figure.
“You’ve done a lovely job with the decorations, sweeting,” Aunt Ruby said with an approving smile and twinkling blue eyes. “I couldn’t have done it better. And I am persuaded your guests are enjoying themselves.”
Jocelyn basked in the glow of her dear aunt’s encouragement even after she moved down the line. Lady Hennessey, sister of the Earl of Tarrington, greeted them. Though she stood next to her husband with her hand resting on his arm, they seemed to stand miles apart.
Lord Hennessey greeted Papa. “Moving speech today, Fairley.”
“Oh?” Papa raised a brow. “Did you enjoy it?”
“I found it entertaining, at the least. I wonder at your radical ideals, Fairley. Next you’ll have the poor leading the country.”
Though Papa stiffened, he kept his voice and expression mild. “I hope, at least, to help the poor find the opportunity to pull themselves out of starvation and obscurity while still observing time-honored traditions.”
“Your dangerous views will pull us into a revolution as bloody as the French’s.”
Lady Marguerite sniffed. “I doubt very much a public educational system will throw us into the embrace of Madame Guillotine.”
Her husband turned a sneer on her. “Exactly why women aren’t in politics.”
“Exactly why they ought to be,” she shot back with a lift to her chin. Without missing a beat, she focused her piercing gaze on Jocelyn. “Lovely as always, Miss Fairley. That shade of ivory favors your complexion much better than the unflattering yellow you wore at the Jenison’s musical week. I’d wager blue would bring out the color of your eyes.”
Jocelyn managed not to recoil at the backhanded compliment and dredged up a pained smiled. “Blue is my favorite color.”
“Follow your instincts, Miss Fairley. I always regret it when I don’t.” She cast a weighted glance at her husband.
Jocelyn wanted to cringe at the obvious disharmony between the Hennesseys and the perfect foil to the love Lord Tarrington bore for his countess—all the more reason for Jocelyn not to rush into marriage simply to assuage her loneliness and feed her thirst for the great adventure of love. She must take her time to ensure her best chances at a union like Lord and Lady Tarrington.
But the closest she’d been to a man in over a year was the one who’d attacked her in her father’s study. A shiver raced down her backbone, and her mouth and neck burned where the intruder had touched her.
Again, she pushed away the memory. Papa. Guests. The evening.
Once she saw her father firmly placed as prime minister, she’d give a thought to her own future. But an edge of loneliness sliced through her consciousness, reminding of her lack of prospects. Never mind that gentlemen didn’t fight for her favor. If wedded bliss remained out of reach, even after another Season or two, she’d embrace spinsterhood and focus her energies on helping manage her father’s estates and caring for his tenants. Surely that would suffice.
Chapter 2
Grant Amesbury landed lightly on the sidewalk and flattened his body against the brick building. Keeping to the shadows, he crept away. At the end of the block, he trained his gaze on the window through which he’d made his escape. No face appeared and no cry of alarm sounded. He must have effectively threatened the girl to prevent her from alerting anyone to his presence for the time being.
He swore. He’d committed enough deplorable acts in his life to earn him a place of honor at the right hand of the devil, but he’d never in all his seven and twenty years threatened an innocent woman. Not that any female was entirely innocent. Feminine wiles automatically earned a black mark next to their names from their first coquettish smile to their final act of betrayal.
He ran a hand down the scar along the side of his face but refused to indulge in memory.
However, to his knowledge, the one he’d attacked wasn’t guilty of any crime. She might have been a maid, of course, but servants seldom smelled as good as the girl he’d briefly captured. Besides, she’d been wearing silk and pearls. A lady. He’d assaulted a lady. He swore again. He pictured her lying in a swoon on the floor. Guilt twisted his gut. He shook it off. A servant would likely attend to the wench and she could raise all the theatrics she desired. As a member of the shallow, spoiled beau monde, she’d probably revel in her drama for days, taking to her bed and demanding smelling salts and a bevy of mourners.
He tugged his coat more tightly around him against the penetrating London fog and strolled as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He’d have to return to Fairley’s house again later to make a more thorough search if he hoped to discover any real proof—beyond informants’ words—that Fairley truly was involved in a conspiracy.
Several carriages clattered past him to the Fairley’s house. Their occupants got out wearing dancing shoes, and ascended the steps for the party Grant had counted on guaranteeing no one would be in the study. A serious miscalculation. Tack jingled and hooves clopped on the cobbled streets. The scent of horses mingled with the stench of the Thames and the overruling odor of burning coal in a uniquely London blend.
“Evenin’, Mr. Smith.” Maggie’s smooth alto greeted him in an accent he placed somewhere just outside of London.
Maggie struck a provocative pose on the sidewalk next to her friend and fellow light-skirt. A nearby street lamp illuminated their tattered clothing, exposed cleavages, and legs thrust suggestively out slits in their skirts.
“Evening, girls,” he said with a nod. “Business slow tonight?”
“Oh, the night is young,” Maggie said, tucking a lock of dark hair behind her ear and eyeing him hungrily. “Are ye lookin’ fer womanly company?”
Briefly, the memory of pressing his body against the soft, voluptuous curves of the girl in Mr. Fairley’s study flashed into his mind. She been soft and had smelled of violets and something comforting like vanilla. And she’d trembled in fear. His right hand burned where he’d silenced her mouth, and the texture of her soft throat created an accusing imprint on his left where he’d threatened her. Regret wormed through him. But he hadn’t hurt her, nor would he have even if she had raised an alarm. So why did that annoying guilt remain?
“Come now, it’s a cold night,” Maggie persisted in a teasing tone. “Let me warm ye tonight.” She smiled, revealing remarkably good teeth. She must have bathed recently—she smelled better than usual and none of the usual street grime marred her pretty face.
Grant gave her his customary answer. “The reform house would be warm. Come on, girls, I’ll give you a ride to Goodfellow’s.”
The strumpets giggled and shook their heads. Maggie’s companion, a girl barely out of childhood with ginger hair said, “Not warm ’nuff fer us.”
With a shrug, Grant strode away. Disreputable they might be, at least they weren’t fainting females that flirted in drawing rooms or mysterious beauties who told pretty lies designed to ensnare.
Behind him, Maggie called, “One of these nights, Mr. Smith, you’ll show me what you keep all wrapped up inside that coat of yours.”
Grant couldn’t imagine being desperate enough to share even a few minutes in the intimate embrace of a prostitute. Although, if he did, he wouldn’t have to guard his battered, neglected heart.
As he strode in the direction of Bow Street, a carriage clattered past him and pulled to a stop. He glanced back. Maggie stood next to the carriage, speaking to the rider, her seductive laugh ringing out in the stillness. The doo
r swung open and she stepped inside.
Grant gritted his teeth and kept moving. At the rate they were going, those girls would be dead of some awful disease that ate them up from the inside before they saw another year—probably before they were old enough to be “out” had they been born to genteel families. A few months ago, he’d physically picked up Maggie, thrown her over his shoulder and carried her bodily to Mrs. Goodfellow’s Institution for the Reformed to learn skills for an honest vocation, but Maggie wouldn’t stay there. She’d returned to the streets in two days. He didn’t care. Not his problem.
By the time Grant reached the Bow Street Office, the dampness had sunk into his skin. Lamplight through the window guided him like a beacon to the door. Grant pushed it open, nodded to a few clerks who were cleaning off their desks for the evening, and strode to the magistrate’s private corner office.
Bow Street’s Magistrate, Richard Barnes, sat behind his desk surrounded by stacks of papers and stared into a dying fire. A lamp sputtered, casting shadows flitting like wraiths in the corners. The magistrate, man about ten years Grant’s senior, sat in a chair, his head bowed over paperwork, his cravat rumpled.
At Grant’s entrance, Barnes brightened and set down his pen. “Amesbury. What news?”
“Nothing,” Grant said in self-loathing. “I found nothing incriminating in Fairley’s study—although I had to cut off my search.”
Barnes waved off Grant’s failure. “No matter. I doubted Fairley would leave evidence lying around his London house, anyway. He’s probably too smart for that.”
Grant threw himself into a worn leather armchair, as disgusted with his failure as much as his means of escape. “I’ll try again another time.”
“My brother said Fairley made an impassioned speech today.” Barnes leaned back and folded his arms. “Won some supporters in the House of Commons. He’s certainly making himself memorable.” He punched the final word with a dark frown.
“Does the prime minister see Fairley as a threat to his position?”
“Difficult to say. It would take a majority vote of no confidence to get Lord Liverpool removed, and for the majority of the House to suggest a replacement. So far, most don’t seem inclined to take such a strong stand against Liverpool, but if they did, Fairley seems to be their choice.”
This lead them right back to Fairley. But it didn’t make sense that someone of Fairley’s wealth and power would stoop to murder, not even to achieve the position of prime minister. However, people often had hidden motives, as Grant well knew.
If Richard Barnes thought Fairley was guilty, then he was. And the word of two separate informants at two separate times could not be ignored. The magistrate was one of the few people Grant trusted implicitly—and not just because Barnes defied his orders to rescue him, like an avenging angel, from the Corsican Monster’s best torturer. But more than that, Grant respected the man’s unwavering sense of right and wrong, as well as his instincts.
Barnes continued, “Fairley is ambitious and has shown ungentlemanly conduct in the past. And his wife’s death might have pushed him into a state of ruthlessness—enough to murder to achieve his goal.”
“We won’t let that happen.”
Leaning forward, Barnes laced his fingers together on his desk. “We have to handle this delicately. We can’t accuse a man with Fairley’s standing of plotting such a serious crime without irrefutable proof. And even if we find such proof, we must wait, watch, and learn who else is involved.” Barnes picked up his pen and absently sharpened the tip.
“I understand.” Grant watched his long-time friend and visualized the gears turning in his head.
Barnes set down the pen and leaned forward. “I need you to go deeper—get invited to the conspirators’ secret meetings. The Secret Service is guarding the prime minister day and night, and working to learn exactly when the assassins plan to strike. But if we can discover all the conspirators, we can eradicate them and end the threat.”
Grant grimaced. He’d have to make some new ‘friends.’
Barnes chuckled softly. “What? You look like I’ve proposed something distasteful.”
“‘Going deeper’ means I must rub shoulders with a bunch of nobs and dress like a fop and act like I care about politics.”
Barnes cocked a brow. “Might I point out that you are the son of a nob?”
“Don’t remind me.” Grant slumped down in his chair.
Amusement twinkled in Barnes’s eyes. “Far be it from me to suggest you spend time with men who are literate and bathe once in a while.”
“That’s something in their favor. But if I suddenly show up at respectable establishments, everyone will view that as suspicious.”
“I’m confident you’ll think of something.” A smile hovered around his mouth.
Grant resisted the urge to let out a long-suffering sigh. Very well, he’d do the pretty with those who enjoyed worthless pastimes like parties and balls. Few outside his family knew of his involvement with Bow Street, so no one would suspect him of working on a case. If he played the game right, the conspirators would approach him with the suggestion that something ought to be done about the prime minister—something quick and incisive. And Grant would drag the conspirators to justice, one way or another. Those involved would feel the full force of the law.
He took a hackney home. With the aid of his street-urchin-turned-valet, Clark, Grant shaved and changed into something fashionably uncomfortable. That unpleasant task completed, Grant took another hackney to a gaming establishment respectable enough to attract wealthy customers. Grant strode in as if he frequented the place that attracted the idle, bored rich who sought pleasures away from balls, soirees, and the other inane social gatherings of the London Season.
Bright enough to appear honest, yet softly lit to create an ambiance of intimacy, the room hosted a number of tables filled with gamblers throwing away their money on everything from whist to faro. Dark paneling and woodwork from a bygone era adorned the walls, and scarlet velvet decorated the furniture. Grant reminded himself of his role tonight as the son of an earl and relaxed his expression into one of savoir-faire.
Out of habit, he noted the row of windows along the street-side wall, and the back door on the far side of the adjoining room, which probably led to an alley. A young man nearest Grant leaned against the wall, too drunk to be a threat. Two next to him shouted at each other and guffawed. Bully boys stood by to throw out any trouble makers. Seasoned players mingled with cocky innocents unaware of how badly they were getting fleeced.
Almost afraid to move his head lest he muss the awkward perfection of his cravat, Grant ambled to a green baize table to observe a high stakes game of faro. Dice rolled to a stop, and cries of triumph and woe exploded as players won and lost money in a vain hope to tempt Lady Luck to smile on them.
Fools. Grant kept his money closely guarded. Even his investments sat with only the most trusted ventures. Lady Luck was unfaithful, and Grant would trust her no more than he’d trust a woman.
Moments later, he wandered to a group playing vingt-et-un. Gentlemen at the table sat with guarded expressions and rumpled neck cloths, most of them he recognized as younger sons of aristocracy or nobility, no doubt desperate to add to their allowance. The game ended amid groans. A victor crowed his triumph while one of the losers vacated his spot.
“Too much for me tonight,” the gentleman grumbled as he stood and abandoned the game.
Someone approached and Grant went on alert. Then he relaxed at the familiar face.
The face from the past grinned. “No, it can’t be...Grant Amesbury?”
Grant allowed himself enough of a smile to appear friendly. “James Ingle. I thought you’d have debauched enough maidens to have been chased out of the country by now—or put a period to the end of your life on a dueling field.”
James gave a start and drew his brows together, genuinely offended. “I’ve never debauched a maiden.”
“Oh, really?” Grant draw
led.
“In truth. And I never touched your sister, I swear.”
“I know. I would have killed you if you had. But you broke her heart. For that I should have at least maimed you.”
Ingle gave a huff of laughter but sobered at what must have been a deadly gleam in Grant’s eye. Shifting from foot to foot, Ingle tugged at his collar and cleared his throat. “Any games catch your interest tonight?”
“I just got here.”
“Ah. I prefer Loo, myself.”
“I hear that’s Prinny’s choice of games these days as well.” Grant deliberately avoiding calling the former Prince Regent “King.” The new monarch title didn’t sit any better on the indolent womanizer than his previous one had. Besides, he hadn’t yet been coroneted.
Ingle tapped his chin thoughtfully. “I think you’re thinking of the prime minister; I hear he favors Loo.”
Grant shrugged. “Perhaps. They’re both a couple of wastrels, if you ask me. They gamble with the state of the country, as well.”
“I can’t say that I completely disagree.”
“I’d like to throw the lot of them into the sea and put a real leader in charge.”
“Maybe we should.” Ingle eyed him as if trying to decipher his meaning. “You don’t strike me as one of those calling for Parliamentary reform.”
“I’m not, really. Just disillusioned.” Grant glanced casually around but no one appeared to take any interest in their conversation.
Ingle peered at him. “A disillusioned war hero...”
Grant let out a scoff that went all the way to his toes. “I’m not a hero.”
“You served king and country.”
Images of war and death crowded Grant’s mind—black powder burning his nose, cries of agony echoing in his ears, and soldiers he shot crumpling to lie in their own blood. He sucked in his breath and raced past memories back to the smoke-filled gaming establishment. “I served.”
“That makes you a hero.” Compassion edged into Ingle’s expression and his gaze settled on the scar running down Grant’s face that forever branded him.