~~~
A little shy of an hour later, Polly stood around the corner from the academy at a busy intersection of passing carriages, wagons, and people on foot. She tried to blend in as she waited anxiously for Rosie to arrive. She’d purposefully worn her most concealing cottage bonnet, its large straw brim hiding most of her profile.
“Miss Kent?”
She started, her head twisting in the direction of the strange voice. Her bonnet had worked too well, preventing her from seeing the street urchin who’d approached her from the other side.
“Yes, that’s me,” she said, perplexed.
“I ’ave a message for ye.” The gap-toothed boy held out a missive.
Polly took the note. Breaking the wax seal, she scanned it quickly.
Dear Pols,
Mama has had a spell—don’t worry, the physician says she just needs bedrest. But of course Papa rushed home, and now it will be impossible for me to slip out. Because time is of essence, I must ask you the greatest favor. Will you, my dearest sister, carry out our mission on your own? My future depends upon it.
R.
P.S. Please tell the messenger the month in which you were born. That way I can be sure you received this, and he will get his other half-crown.
With trembling hands, Polly folded the note.
“Well, miss?” The urchin cocked his brown-capped head. “Wot’s your reply, then?”
She inhaled. “February. And you may tell her my answer is ‘yes’.”
Chapter Fourteen
Sinjin stared broodingly out through the slit in the carriage curtains. From his vantage point on a cross street, he had a clear view of Number 12 Castle Street, a tidy building just north of the Covent Garden market. Come sundown, the block would grow raucous due to its taverns and gaming hells, yet the three-storey residence maintained an elegant Palladian façade, well-tended flower boxes blooming beneath spotless windows.
It would take a generous employer indeed to put an employee up in this abode. Which led Sinjin to wonder if Corbett’s relationship with Nicoletta was more than professional. Why would the owner of a bawdy house give a damn about one of his wenches? Could it be a lover’s fury that drove Corbett to pursue justice on Nicoletta’s behalf? Or could Corbett have some other, more sinister involvement in the affairs of that night?
Whatever the case, Sinjin would discover the truth.
Since leaving the Kent residence three days ago, Sinjin had accepted that he would have to rely upon himself to get out of his current predicament. It was not a new state of affairs. With Stephan gone, he didn’t have anyone to take his back. He recalled one of his dark periods when his older brother had come to find him in his apartments. As he’d shut everyone out, including the servants, the place had turned into a pig sty. He hadn’t washed for two days, hadn’t eaten—unless one counted the copious amounts of whiskey he’d poured down his throat.
Stephan had forced Sinjin to bathe and eat. He’d stayed until the fog lifted a few days later.
I won’t always be here, Stephan had said. You have to learn to pull yourself up by the bootstraps. Find some way to beat these monstrous moods.
As Sinjin watched the passers-by on the street, he felt the truth of his brother’s words. Of course, it was always easier during the periods when the devils were sleeping. When he was calm and himself. He had to take advantage of his clear head and advance his plan.
In retrospect, he’d realized that the escape from Mrs. Barlow’s had unbalanced him, the black devil quietly whispering in his ear, seducing him with delusions that sounded like facts. Now that he was thinking rationally, he could see that he had no solid proof that guards were after him—and even if they were, what could they do? Kent’s partner was right. A man couldn’t be locked in an asylum without documented proof of his insanity. He had no cause to worry, he assured himself.
Thus, after leaving Kent’s, Sinjin had returned to his townhouse. Predictably, there’d been no one there but his skeleton crew of servants. He’d been so relieved that he’d laughed at his own folly. His humor died a quick death when he read the letter sent by his father. The terse paragraphs had outlined a threat: return to Mrs. Barlow’s or be cut off financially.
So be it. Crumpling the letter into a ball, Sinjin had tossed it into the fire. He didn’t need the duke’s money. To be certain, he’d paid a visit to Randolph Merrick, his man of business, earlier this morning. He’d inherited Merrick along with a sizeable portion from his mama on his twenty-first birthday.
Catherine Pelham had come from a family of wealthy merchants, and her marriage contract had provided bequests to both her sons, with the stipulation that one would inherit all if the other should pass; if none of her children survived, all would go to one of her distant male relatives. After Stephan’s death, Sinjin had found himself in possession of some four hundred thousand pounds.
Merrick’s job was to ensure that Sinjin kept that fortune—and the man was exceedingly good at what he did. He’d worked for two generations of mama’s family, outliving his clients but ensuring that their financial legacy lived on. A slight, bespectacled fellow with a ring of grey hair, he was unprepossessing in looks and manner and a bona fide genius when it came to money, a fact proved once again when he’d provided a current review of Sinjin’s portfolio.
“That’s an impressive showing, old boy.” Filching the glass paperweight from Merrick’s desk, Sinjin had idly tossed it from hand to hand. “Even I couldn’t fritter that fortune away.”
“Your expenses last quarter did not even make a dint in the interest, my lord, let alone the principle,” Merrick said calmly. As usual, attempts at levity went over the professional man’s balding pate. “My clerk informed me that you paid a visit when I away. Was there something particular you wished to discuss, my lord?”
Sinjin hesitated, the smooth weight heavy in his palm. He’d met Merrick five years ago and owed much to the other. Back then, he’d been living on a meager stipend from His Grace and spending most of it on a trifecta of sin: spirits, gambling, and tarts. He’d lived in a hellhole, had creditors breathing down his neck, and basically let his demons run roughshod over his life. After the years at Creavey Hall, he hadn’t given a damn about anything beyond the gratifications of the moment.
The appearance of Merrick had changed Sinjin’s life. The day after his twenty-first birthday, Sinjin had returned to his dilapidated lodgings, drunk and bleary-eyed, to find the stooped grey man waiting patiently by the door. Merrick had introduced himself, and when Sinjin had let him inside, the man of business had glanced around and said, “We shall ensure that you never live like this again.”
Merrick had lived up to his words. The man not only took care of the money, but he quietly made countless life arrangements for Sinjin as well. In truth, Sinjin was quite certain he could not have managed half as well without the other. Yet as reliable and stalwart as Merrick was, the man kept to a strictly professional role. The closest they had to a personal conversation was when the other reconciled Sinjin’s expenses.
Once, Merrick had queried him about two identical bills received from a jeweler on the same day. The man of business had been certain that an error had been made. When Sinjin explained that he had, in fact, sent identical baubles to a pair of twins in whose company he’d spent the night, Merrick’s eyebrows had inched slightly upward. He’d settled the receipts without further comment.
Today, Sinjin had found that his desire to confide was uncharacteristically strong. Thus, he’d related his present circumstances, battling shame and fear. Setting the paperweight back on the desk with an uncomfortable click, he said, “Well, what do you think I should do?”
Reaching over, Merrick straightened the paperweight. “This is not my area of expertise, my lord.”
“But surely you have some suggestion?” He hoped that the other would not second Kent’s advice for he refused to be a bloody coward and hide behind his father’s coattails.
“You believe you are
innocent of this crime?” Merrick said after a pause.
“Yes,” Sinjin said firmly. “I’ve never hit a woman. I never would.”
“Money can provide independence, but it is the truth that sets one free.” Merrick’s bespectacled gaze did not waver. “If I were in your shoes, I would not rest until I had the liberty that only peace of mind can bring.”
Gratitude and relief rolled through Sinjin. One person, at least, didn’t reject the possibility of his innocence. “I see. Thank you for your input, Merrick.”
“You are welcome, my lord. And money is never without its uses,” the man of business had said in brisk tones. “Shall I look into retaining the services of the Bow Street Runners on your behalf?”
It had been an excellent suggestion, and Sinjin had decided that he would hire the Runners himself. He’d been on his way to Bow Street when some impulse had directed him to Nicoletta’s residence instead. Which brought him to his present vigil. The door of Number 12 remained stubbornly closed. People and carriages passed by. A lady on the other side of the street snagged his attention, drawing him closer to the window. Her face was concealed by a large bonnet, but something about her triggered thoughts… of Polly Kent.
Anger still simmered at the chit’s unjust accusations, her damned assumptions about him. Yet, oddly enough, as time had passed, it was her assessment of herself that niggled at him more. I know what I am. A plain, fat, and peculiar wallflower. Was she cracked? Had she never consulted a looking glass? A part of him wanted to shake her, make her see the truth.
Another part of him wanted to hunt Brockhurst down. He’d thought the bastard cowardly back then; now, he wanted to call the tosser out. His fierce protectiveness was as novel as it was alarming: he’d never felt that way about a woman. Ever.
So why in blazes did he experience it toward Polly, who had made it clear that she wanted naught to do with him? Part termagant, part kitten, she was wholly a confusing, complicated chit—and a temptation he could ill afford. The Fates had done him a favor by putting her out of his reach.
His gaze sharpened as he followed the journey of the mysterious lady who’d triggered his unwelcome thoughts, who’d now rounded the corner onto Castle Street. Damn, she reminded him of Polly. She had a curvaceous figure that her frumpy brown dress couldn’t hide, and the determined set of her shoulders was unnervingly familiar. The hairs prickled on his nape when she headed up the steps to Number 12.
The door opened, and a servant appeared, obviously inquiring as to the visitor’s purpose. The lady replied, and, as she did so, her head tilted to one side, revealing a clear glimpse of her profile.
Sinjin’s blood turned to ice as he watched Polly Kent traipse into his enemy’s domain.
~~~
“Didn’t you lot come by earlier this week?” the maid said as she led the way down a tastefully decorated hallway.
“I’m, um, here to conduct the follow up,” Polly extemporized, her heart thumping.
Thankfully, the maid didn’t ask any further questions, her aura corroborating her indifference. She left Polly to wait in a small parlor and said her mistress would be in shortly. The instant the door closed behind her, Polly jumped up and paced around the room. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but any clues concerning the mysterious Nicoletta French might prove useful.
The parlor was elegantly appointed, with buttermilk damask covering the walls and an Aegean blue Aubusson upon the floor. The furnishings were upholstered in brushed saffron velvet. Finding nothing of note in the seating area, Polly spied a secretaire in the far corner and hurried over to investigate.
A filigree tray of writing implements, a crystal inkwell, and a book rested on the blotter. Casting a nervous glance at the door, Polly picked up the volume and flipped through it. A comedic play—her brows lifted—and a rather risqué one at that. She was about to replace the book when a scrap drifted from between the pages, fluttering into the shadows beneath the desk. Simultaneously, footsteps approached in the hallway.
Panicked, she put the book down, dropped onto her hands and knees. She had to stretch to reach the fallen paper, her fingers closing around it just as the footsteps reached the parlor. Without a second to spare, she hastily stuffed the scrap into the hidden pocket of her skirts and dashed toward the sitting area. Her bottom collided with a chair cushion just as the door opened.
“Apologies for keeping you waiting, Miss Kent, but I wasn’t expecting visitors.” An ebony-haired beauty glided toward her. “I’m Nicoletta French. What can I do for you?”
Polly couldn’t help but stare. Tall and statuesque, Miss French wore a rose silk walking dress that looked sewn onto her hourglass figure. Her skin seemed too pale for her dark hair, creating a dramatic look, and her hazel eyes had a feline cast. Polly saw no lingering evidence of the assault on the other’s face, which was subtly enhanced with paint.
Even more than Miss French’s looks, Polly noticed the other’s aura: the woman shimmered with confidence… and not a little conceit.
Swallowing, Polly said, “I’m here to follow up with some questions concerning the Earl of Revelstoke. On, um, behalf of my brother.” She sent a silent apology to Ambrose.
Miss French seated herself. “I said all I had to say to your brother.”
“It won’t take but a moment,” Polly said quickly.
“I don’t like to speak of the incident.” A quiver entered Miss French’s voice, and she shuddered. Both gestures struck Polly as odd given that there was no sign of fear in the other’s aura. Just that eerie, unwavering self-assurance.
“I’m certain it must be difficult,” she began tentatively.
“Difficult? You have no idea what I suffer.” Moisture gathered in Miss French’s eyes, trickling over her high cheekbones. She dabbed at the tears with a handkerchief before saying with a sniffle, “It haunts me nightly in my dreams. The last thing I want is to relive it during the day as well.”
Polly’s nape tingled. Not because of the other’s tears but because Miss French’s glow remained utterly unchanged despite her apparent distress. If anything, her confidence grew stronger… as if she were enjoying the performance she was giving.
“I have only one detail to clear up, and then I’ll be on my way,” Polly said.
Miss French gave a weak wave of her handkerchief. “If you must.”
“Why are you trying to frame Revelstoke?”
Alarm slashed through the woman’s aura, but her expression didn’t alter. Instead she said tearfully, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Who is paying you to smear the earl’s reputation?” Polly said evenly. “My brother is London’s best investigator, and he will track down the other man who was in the room that night. It’ll go better for you if you confess now.”
Before Polly’s focused gaze, the woman’s alarm gave way to anger… and then her aura took on the hard, superficial glitter of paste jewels as smug confidence reasserted itself.
Nicoletta French stood, her bottom lip quivering, freshly manufactured tears—for Polly was certain that they weren’t genuine—leaking from her eyes. “How dare you come and make such horrid accusations. I want you to leave!”
Before Polly could reply, a commotion sounded beyond the room. Pounding footsteps, the maid’s raised voice, “Ye can’t go in there—”
The door flung open, and the air whooshed from Polly’s lungs.
Revelstoke stood in the doorway. He strode forward, his anger filling the room. A second later, his hand closed like a manacle around Polly’s arm.
“Let’s go,” he clipped out.
“You.”
At the gasped word, Polly’s gaze swung from Revelstoke’s livid face to Nicoletta’s pale one. The woman’s eyes were wide, her lips visibly trembling, her hands clasped to her breast. Despite those dramatic gestures, the woman’s aura shone not with fear, but…
Avarice. Thrill. Triumph.
This is a performance for her. In that moment, Polly knew
it for certain.
“Why can’t you leave me be?” Nicoletta cowered against the settee although Revelstoke made no move toward her. “Haven’t you done enough?”
Polly saw a flash of real pain. Not from Miss French—but from Revelstoke. He still had a hold on Polly’s arm, and she felt him flinch, anguish and uncertainty ripping through his aura. Yet he didn’t respond to the accusation, instead hauling her out of the room.
“Have a care, Miss Kent,”—Nicoletta’s sobs followed them down the corridor—“or the devil will have his way with you, too!”
Revelstoke stiffened as if he’d been shot, but he didn’t halt, dragging Polly out the front door, down the steps, and tossing her into the waiting carriage.
“Drive and don’t stop until I tell you to,” he barked to the driver before vaulting inside, slamming the door behind him. As the carriage swayed into motion, he planted his hands on either side of her. Caged by his body, his engulfing rage, she stared at him.
“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” he thundered.
Chapter Fifteen
Polly’s heart pounded in her ears. If she thought she’d provoked Revelstoke before, she now knew she’d been mistaken. His emotions whipped around him like a primal storm, the colors wild, dazzlingly intense.
“H-how did you find me?” she stammered.
“Answer my bloody question.” His pupils expanded, black crowding out blue. “Why in blazes did you go to see Nicoletta French?”
She searched for a plausible explanation… but there was none. None but the truth. Besides, her sense of self-preservation warned her not to risk more of Revelstoke’s wrath by lying.
In a small voice, she said, “I was questioning her.”
“The devil you say.”
Unnerved by his unrelenting stare, she rushed on, “I, um, overheard your discussion with Ambrose and his partners. I know about your… situation, and I wanted to help.”
“You know about my situation and wanted to help?”
Never Say Never to an Earl (Heart of Enquiry Book 5) Page 12