His staccato questions had their effect. The Pretender choked on his wine. “Wife? Who have you been talking to?”
“Only the usual people. Did you not have me followed, observed? You’ll know I live a fairly ordinary life.”
The Young Pretender put down his glass with a force that nearly cracked it. “Except for your habit of running with the wrong people. That is one reason I called you here tonight. Break off your connection with the family that calls itself the Emperors of London.”
“Why do you wish for that?”
“Isn’t it obvious? They are loyal to the usurpers. I have spoken to a strong supporter of ours, Northwich. Do you know him?”
“I haven’t as yet had the felicity of meeting him.”
“You have now,” the man in the corner said.
Chapter 13
He walked forward, his heels rapping on the uneven floorboards. Then he swept a bow, a low one. “I wanted to meet the newest member of the house of Stuart,” he said. “I regret our paths have not crossed before.”
Dominic returned his bow, after he’d put his glass down. The man was a duke, and Dominic gave him his due. “The head of the Dankworth family. I have briefly met your son.”
“Which one?”
“Alconbury. Your heir.”
The duke grimaced. Out of the shadows he appeared older than Dominic had supposed. He kept himself in good shape, but he must be at least fifty. Alconbury was in his late twenties or early thirties, so the duke was probably a few years over fifty.
“Alconbury has his own way of doing things that aren’t always mine. His highness has agreed to meet you partly on my account. After all, we will be working together, will we not?”
Dominic regarded him steadily. Then he retook his seat, claiming his right to sit in the presence of a duke, as a king’s son should. He hated the situation, but he would use every bit of it to his advantage. His aims remained consistent. He wanted to ensure Claudia’s safety. That above all things. He wanted to discover more about this family trying to claim him as its own.
Perhaps he’d discover more about himself. He had to know more about them, and to do that he needed face-to-face meetings. “I haven’t yet made up my mind.”
“We have other proofs,” Northwich said. “Paper, your looks, and circumstances. We can show that the people who reared you were not in Paris, but in Rome. We can show that you were born in a private house close to the Palazzo Muti, where the King has his court.”
He meant the Old Pretender. Dominic refused to call him king. No one not consecrated and approved by the people could be his monarch.
“We can show any number of things that will prove you are who we say you are. You are with us. Either that, or we will condemn you to the authorities.”
Charles Stuart was watching Dominic strangely, as if he would say more, but was holding his tongue. Northwich took care, as Dominic did, to keep all the occupants of the room under observation. Stuart was not appearing the confident prince of a few moments earlier. Tension filled the space between them.
“I will do as I think right, and I will take whatever consequences I have.”
“What of this house?” Northwich demanded. “We know who owns it. What if it is exposed as a nest of sedition? Of a stronghold of the true King and his son? What would happen to the precious reputation of the Emperors?” He said the last word with a sneer. “One of their number, the wild daughter of the Marquess of Strenshall, has thrown her lot in with the Jacobites. I can bring enough witnesses to attest to that. She walked in here, bold as brass, displaying herself to the assembled company. Nobody could mistake that hair, that face, even though she’d tried to disguise herself.”
A cold hand clutched Dominic’s heart. That statement contained enough truth to prove difficult. Dangerous, even. If the power of the Emperors was reduced, that would knock one support away from the current monarchy, which was shakier than it had been since Queen Anne died.
An ailing king and his grandson, little more than a boy, or the wily grandson of an anointed King, the senior of his line?
One question hammered at Dominic’s skull. Did they know that his birth parents were married? Did they realize that for want of a better, if the Stuart line prevailed, Britain could find itself with a King Dominic?
Nausea churned Dominic’s stomach.
Outside, Claudia stood in the middle of a veritable mob, consisting of her twin brothers and her cousin Max. Max had seen Dominic in The Cocoa Tree, and being of a curious nature, had collected what Dominic had discarded.
“He’s in there,” Claudia declared in a low whisper, although she wanted to jump up and down and shout. “Two men, one either side walked him in there. He didn’t have a choice.”
“Why you’re here when you were told expressly to stay within bounds beats me,” Val said in a disgruntled tone that barely hid his interest in the scene. “Father will rusticate you for this.”
“If anyone tells him.” Claudia glared at her brothers. She also viewed Max with disdain. “Why did you tell them?”
“Because they’re your brothers,” Max, otherwise the Marquess of Devereaux declared. “Truly, Claudia, your father should have beaten you once a week when you were little.”
“By God, he should still be doing it,” Val said. “I’m just glad Marcus is out of town. You were told not to come to this house again, Claudia.”
“I was told not to go inside,” she said. “If Max didn’t want me to come, he shouldn’t have told me.”
They were standing at the end of the street, where Hart Street met Covent Garden. All in a form of evening dress, they looked more like people heading for the Opera House or the theater than people who had any reason to linger near a street with a raffish reputation.
“Never mind that,” Claudia said hastily, seeing an argument developing. “We need to do something!”
“You mean we do. You don’t.”
Claudia snorted and stamped her foot. That hurt, since her evening slippers were not of the sturdy variety. Every cobble made its presence felt. “How do you think you’ll get in? Do you want to storm the place? If you do, Dominic will get hurt, and I will never forgive any of you. Ever. I will ensure you all suffer if that happens.”
Val shuddered. “I would risk even a grass snake in my bed rather than put you in danger.”
Max snorted with laughter. Unlike the Shaws, Max was the only child of his parents and had never known the joys of siblings. He turned his head and his eyes glinted green in the light. “Did she really do that?” he asked Val, who was standing to one side of him.
Val nodded.
“He hates snakes,” his twin added.
“Oh, tell everyone,” Val mumbled. “Why don’t you shout it to the heavens while you’re at it?”
“Shut up!” Claudia was losing patience. “Just think about getting Dominic out of there!”
“I knew you wouldn’t leave this to us. As soon as Max strode into White’s, I asked him if he’d left you alone.”
“He did.” Max rolled his eyes.
“He said you’d promised to stay put while he came to us.” Darius snorted. “He clearly doesn’t know you.”
“I made him go,” Claudia said.
“So you, a well-born lady, get a hackney on your own to traipse over half London.” Val’s voice dripped with disgust. “Do you remember why that marriage act was passed two years ago? Because heiresses weren’t abducted and forced into marriage with fortune hunters! Doesn’t that tell you anything?”
Claudia produced a pistol from the capacious folds of her cloak. “You made sure I could use this. I have another.”
“Give it to me,” Val said.
“I’ll need it.”
“No you won’t. You said you had another one.”
Grumbling, Claudia handed the weapon over and pulled out the other one.
Val gave a low whistle. “These are Papa’s best dueling pistols.”
“They were the first I coul
d find. He keeps them in his study and he shows them off to anyone who’s interested. The box has everything you need to load them, so it was convenient.”
“Beautiful,” Max said. “We don’t use them much in the City, but I like to have one about me in case of footpads. I should get some of these.”
Claudia kept a firm grip on the one she had left. She’d also stowed her small pistol, the one that hurt her thumb when she cocked it, in her skirt pocket, but she didn’t tell anyone that. The men had swords. She should have some kind of backup, too.
“We go,” she said. “Now.”
Before they could tell what she was about, she strode away and was halfway down the street before they caught up with her.
“Dear God, Claudia!” Max said, but of the men he had the least experience with her and he wouldn’t know what she was capable of.
She would march up to the front door of the house and rap on the panels. A sliver of paint fell to the worn stone step. Somebody came and opened the door a crack.
Val shoved past Claudia and pushed the door, taking whoever answered it by surprise.
“I’ve come to see my house,” Claudia declared.
The madam stood inside, mouth agape, ready to scream.
Claudia smiled at her. “My brothers didn’t believe me when I said I owned this house, and we were at the theater so I said I’d bring them and show them. Prove to them that this is mine. You can corroborate it, can’t you? You’ve seen the papers, and I’ll wager my aunt told you too.”
The madam sucked in a breath, but before she could issue more than a squeak, Darius had one hand around her waist and another over her mouth.
“We mean you no harm,” he said affably. “But if you shout, I will knock you on the head and you’ll wake with a lump as big as a pigeon’s egg. Tell these people we’re only after a good time.”
Val yelled something obscene. Claudia watched him, fascinated.
“Where’s the fucking whores? Come on, there’s a hungry man here with a handful of guineas!”
She’d never seen her brother in this frame of mind, and she had no idea he could sound like that. Val was known for profligacy, but her experience of it was poor to nonexistent, since Val preferred to keep his debauchery away from his family. Or so he’d told her once.
He definitely had the right tone of voice, because women came flocking and the men standing by, the big powerful men, grinned.
One jerked his thumb at her. “Who’s this?”
Val jerked a finger upstairs. “She’s come for her gentry-mort. He’s upstairs with another doxy and she’s none too pleased.”
“Oh, Hampstead fare, are we?” one of the girls said. She peered closer, close enough that the stink of her breath washed Claudia in nausea. “You’ve been here before, ain’t you? I remember you. With the mort what took you upstairs. Ain’t you fancy now, though?” Her sneer displayed five teeth and several gaps.
Claudia wasn’t slow on the uptake. “Yes, and I’ve come to get him back. I’m not sharing.”
Raucous female laughter followed her up the stairs.
At the top stood a huge man. Two men squashed into one, he was so big, and his face so battered.
Claudia remained three steps away and waved her pistol at him. “Like many ladies of fashion, I have taken lessons in shooting. At any rate, at this distance I can hardly miss.” She smiled. “If I do, the men behind me will not.”
The man stood aside. She took a chance in pushing past him, there not being much room at the top of these stairs. But one of the men behind took control of him. The muffled yelp told her he’d taken a well-situated blow from the butt of somebody’s weapon. Silently she commended whoever had done it and carried on. The first room was empty, and the second, which said something for a busy brothel during opening hours. The one at the end, the one from before, had its door closed.
When Max opened the only other door off this passage, he found someone, as was evidenced by the muttered conversation and another thump. This one rocked the boards under her feet.
A shout came from the inside of the end room. They’d been discovered.
Someone shoved past her—Val, as it turned out—and struck the door, sending it swinging inwards.
Claudia breathed a thankful sigh. Dominic, seemingly at ease, half leaned on the bed, in the process of standing. He was not armed. He swept his hand around his back and came up with a wicked-looking knife. The blade was about six inches long and it gleamed in the light reflected from the candle sconces. The scent of expensive wax filled this small space. It almost but not quite drowned the other smells, the offensive stink of stale sexual activity, cheap perfume, and unwashed sheets. Deeply unpleasant smells, all of them. She was so glad to see Dominic she’d have lain with him on that bed, just to feel his body against hers, his heart beating strongly in his chest.
She didn’t allow her temporary weakness to affect her. Her brothers and cousin would never allow her to forget it, if she did.
Claudia stood just inside the door, her back to the wall, not impeding access but threatening anyone who tried to leave without her permission.
Three people occupied the room. Dominic of course, was one. The other, standing in the center of the space, an amused smile quirking his lips, was the Duke of Northwich. A fat man lounged in a chair as near to a throne as cheap carving and wood allowed. The one she’d seen in this place before—Charles Stuart, sometimes called the Young Pretender.
She had absolutely no inclination to bow. Surely royalty should evoke that, but it didn’t here. For all his status as deposed, or rather, never enthroned, this man was a Stuart—a member of a royal house that went back further than she could recall. Kings immemorial, one might say. When she’d been presented at court on her introduction to society and met other members of the royal family subsequently, curtseys had come naturally to her. Perhaps, stripped of all their trappings of royalty, she might feel the same about King George, but she didn’t think so. This man gave her absolutely no reason to present him with an obeisance, even though he was glaring as if he expected it.
Dominic swept her brothers and Max with a level gaze, and lingered on Max before he groaned. “The man with green eyes in the Cocoa-Tree.”
“Just so,” Max said. “I was there on business. I don’t frequent society events very often.”
“Only when he wants something,” Darius said. “St. Just, meet my cousin Maximilian, the Marquess of Devereaux.”
Dominic only smiled and inclined his head, but in a weary tone, he added, “Is there nowhere the Emperors do not go?”
“No,” Darius said shortly, and grinned.
“You must forgive me,” Max said. “I am unremittingly curious. I recognized you. Part of my business is knowing people. To see you with a known Jacobite recidivist engaged my interest, particularly since you’d recently become betrothed to my cousin.”
“You fished the note out of the fire.”
“When you throw something into a fire, it is best to ensure the fire is actually lit,” Max said.
“The note said nothing particular,” Dominic said.
“It did if you knew the sender or the recipient. One visit to my cousin’s house revealed the whole.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, that also meant Claudia came with the note.”
“How could I remain at home with Dominic in danger?” Claudia said. “In my house, too!”
“Ah, yes, we were forgetting that.” Dominic tucked his knife back where it had come from.
She would have to get him to show her how he did that without cutting himself. Presumably it involved a sheath. She should really take to carrying something of the kind in her pocket.
“Has it escaped your notice that you are holding these two gentlemen at gunpoint?”
The Duke of Northwich laid his weapon carefully down on a nearby table and folded his arms. “Don’t mind me. I know all about familial disputes.”
Somehow she hadn’t thought about Northwich in that way, as a man wi
th a family, instead of the head of an enemy faction. He must have day-to-day business, as well as the other kind—the kind that required meeting disgraced would-be heirs to the throne in filthy rooms in Covent Garden.
“This isn’t a dispute,” she said. “We’re all together in this.”
Now they were here, what did they do?
As if to answer her, Darius left the room and returned in a second. “Unless we plan to turn this into a debating club, we should be leaving soon. The bullies out there aren’t going to remain asleep too much longer.”
“We came for you,” she said to Dominic. Foolishness, because he was not only in this room with two traitors, he was armed. Was he with them? Was she deluded in him?
No, she was not. She understood him and his sense of justice and honor. Damned honor that had caused him to break her heart. Well, he would do so no longer.
Dominic bowed. “You have my eternal gratitude.” He turned his attention to Northwich. “If I may have my weapon back, I would appreciate it. That is my favorite pistol, and I have no mind to lose it now.”
Darius left the room and returned shortly with a well-worn but cared-for weapon. “This one?”
Dominic took it from him, hefted it, and smiled. “Yes. Thank you.” He pocketed the pistol. It gave an odd line to his coat, but it didn’t seem to burden him at all. “The next time I’ll bring my gun belt. Fashionable clothing doesn’t lend itself to storage.”
“I have inside pockets made on all my coats,” Val said, as if they were conversing at their club. “If you have the coat made to accommodate the extra size or carry a carriage pistol, you need never be without one.”
Dominic saluted him. “A capital notion. Then I shall do the same.”
The man in the chair sat watching them, his lowering frown ominous. She would not curtsey. She refused to give him even that much.
However she did glance at him. “Good evening.”
He saluted her with his full glass, the wine slopping over the rim as a result of his expansive gesture. “You enjoyed your family outing, ma’am?” He sounded English, but with a very slight lilt. It wasn’t every day she found a would-be king in a whore’s bedroom.
Reckless in Pink Page 16