Penrith lowered his voice. “You keep a close eye on your baubles and trinkets if you ever find yourself near either one of them, you hear me, son? Or you’ll likely find your watch fob up for sale at Lost Wages.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Penrith shook his head in dismay before emptying his wineglass. “How did I manage to raise such a green lad?” He waved his hand, and a waiter came scurrying to take his order for a refill. Once they were alone, Penrith rested his hand on Alistair’s shoulder and assumed the same attitude he had fifteen years before, when he’d painfully explained in crude details how babies were made, and how to not make them with the upstairs maids. Alistair braced himself.
“You see, son, not everyone is blessed with a head for managing their affairs the way we were.”
Since Alistair knew perfectly well that the marquess’s secretary handled his finances, and that Grandfather still kept him on a quarterly allowance, much as he did Alistair, he was inclined to suspect the value of the wisdom about to be dispensed.
“When fellows like Nigel and Tumblety find themselves in a bind, they don’t have the wherewithal to bluff their way through it, like the rest of Society does.”
Penrith so rarely played the role of father, Alistair felt obliged to go along. Besides, he’d almost forgotten what it was like to converse with one relative without hearing a harangue against the other. He rested his chin on his fist, his elbow on the table. “What do they do?”
“They pinch.” He accepted the fresh glass of wine from the waiter, and waited until he was gone before continuing. “Nothing major, nothing to attract attention, mind you. People think they’ve merely misplaced their fan or fob or what have you. They think the maid or footman moved it and lost it, or that the butler miscounted the silver. They don’t realize they’ve actually been robbed.”
Alistair sat forward. “And what do Sir Nigel or Tumblety do with this booty? An extra fan or gewgaw isn’t going to help them much when creditors and merchants pound on the door.”
“They do if there’s a few dozen people out there, pinching these baubles for them, so they in turn can sell them. How do you think I replaced my watch fob last year? The old man deprived me of my allowance, and I couldn’t let dear Vanessa—or was it Giselle?—think I was at low water. I had to get another, quickly, and paying a jeweler’s price for a new one was out of the question.”
Since his father had lost the watch fob on a roll of the dice, Alistair was disinclined to feel sympathy in the first place. “So you bought a stolen fob from Tumblety?”
“Much as it shames me to admit, yes. And I don’t ever want to see anything of yours show up at Lost Wages, so keep a sharp eye out. You never know who might be trying to filch.” He took a deep swallow of wine.
“I always remember your words of wisdom, Father.” Alistair finished off the last of his now tepid tea.
He believed it quite likely that Madame Melisande had intended to sell the royal snuffbox to Tumblety or Sir Nigel. But that didn’t explain why the two men who’d been following Miss Parnell had stolen the box, or why Nigel had stolen it back from them. How did Nigel know those other men were involved?
Ten to one, there was a great deal still that Miss Parnell had not confessed.
He tossed down his napkin, pushed the betting book to the center of the table, and rose.
“Where are you off to?”
He briefly considered saying he was off to look at stolen watch fobs, then thought better of it. “To find out who built Tumblety’s coach, of course.”
Charlotte ducked down an alley to avoid a large crowd of sailors coming her way on the street. Off in the distance, church bells tolled the hour. Noon. She had less than an hour to complete her task at the tavern before she would need to head home again to get ready for Moncreiffe’s arrival.
A man detached himself from where he’d been propping up a doorway and sauntered toward her. “What ’ave we here? Fancy a bit of fun, ducks?”
“Some other time, per’aps.” She picked up her pace.
“But this is a good time, love.” He slung his arm around her shoulders, matching her stride for stride. “I just got paid,” he cajoled in a gin-soaked voice. He jingled a few coins in his pocket.
She wrinkled her nose. Apparently the only time he washed his filthy dungarees or bathed was when he got caught in the rain. “No,” she said more forcefully, and tried to shrug off his arm. Given the way she was dressed, she couldn’t blame him for his assumption about her occupation. She kept walking.
“Come on, ducks, name your price, and we’ll ’ave a bit of fun.”
She stopped so abruptly he took an extra step before he faced her. She lifted the bottom edge of her skirt, just far enough to reveal the knife sheath strapped to her calf. “Tell you what, ducks, let’s ’ave a race. I’ll wager I can get my knife out faster than you can get out your pintle.”
His face paled beneath the layers of grime, one hand subconsciously reaching down to cover his groin. “If you wasn’t interested, you just had to say so.”
She gave an exasperated huff, pulled her cloak closer around her, and once more strode toward the gaming hell.
She almost wished he’d given her an excuse to use her knife. Steven had taught her well. She was prepared for this life, for this work, whatever she encountered.
And she would prove it by getting back the snuffbox.
She reached the tavern without further incident and settled at a corner table, her back to the wall, where she had an excellent view of both entrances. One led to the street, the other to the kitchen and on toward what she supposed was the gaming area.
A red-haired woman who might be a serving wench sauntered up to Charlotte’s table, one hand on her broad hip. “Girls off’n the street ain’t allowed to ply their trade in ’ere, missy, so get yer arse out the door.”
Charlotte pulled her worn cloak a bit closer around her shoulders, hiding some of the décolletage revealed by the low cut of her dark red gown. “That ain’t the sort o’ work I’m looking for.” She checked that the table was dry and relatively clean, pulled a pack of cards from her reticule, and fanned them out across the table. She lifted one card and neatly flipped over the entire deck, then swept them up and shuffled them. “I ’ave a different specialty.”
The serving wench harrumphed. “You’ll be wanting to speak with Mr. Jennison, then. It’s a bit early for ’im yet, but he should be along shortly.”
“Mr. Jennison. Right. What’s he like, then? Is he the owner of this place?”
“You’d certainly think so, the way he carries on sometimes. No, some rich toff owns this place. Jennison just runs the gaming rooms.”
“That’s good to know. I’m Susie, by the way.”
“Ginny.” After a glance toward the kitchen door, Ginny sat in the chair opposite.
Charlotte shuffled the cards as they talked. “So, any tips on what to say to Mr. Jennison when I meet him, or what not to say?”
“Well, don’t expect ’im to look you in the eye. Wear something cut a little lower, and you probably won’t even ’ave to show your cards.”
Charlotte tugged her dress up a bit. “What about the owner? Is he a good man, pay everyone on time?”
Ginny shook her head. “Don’t know nothing ’bout ’im, except Jennison gives out the wages every week, regular as clockwork.”
The dim lighting and her heavily applied rouge made it difficult to discern if Ginny really didn’t know about the owner or was simply reluctant to share such knowledge.
“I’ve heard there are some fringe benefits to working here,” Charlotte ventured, fanning her cards out again.
“Aye?”
“Like maybe I can buy a real lady’s fan, for a lot less than what the lady paid for it.”
Ginny’s eyes narrowed. “Mayhap. You’d ’ave to ask Jennison about such things. Me, I just serve the drinks.” She gave a furtive glance over her shoulder, then flashed a grin. “Sometimes there are bonuse
s.” She patted the elegant hair comb holding up her red tresses. It was silver, set with what Charlotte had thought to be glass rather than gemstones, and looked similar to one Aunt Hermione had lost when they’d first arrived in London.
She patted her own hair comb, an unadorned bit of brass. “Fair enough.”
Three men seated near the fireplace shouted for service just then and banged their empty tankards on the table.
“Speaking o’ drinks…” Ginny stood up.
“Thanks ever so much for your help, Ginny.”
“No trouble at all.” She went to her customers.
Charlotte scooped her cards up, slipped them back in her reticule, and glanced at the watch tucked inside. Oh, blast. Jennison would have to wait until later. She barely had time to get home and change before Moncreiffe was due to arrive. Steven couldn’t know she had left the house.
She sensed someone watching her, and scanned the room. Her breath caught.
There, just inside the taproom door, stood Moncreiffe.
Their eyes locked, and she forgot all about the room full of people around them.
He looked away first, taking in the mixed clientele of young bucks, sailors, and vagrants filling the room, before returning his assessing gaze to her, his look of disbelief growing sharper.
Before it could become full-blown anger, Charlotte hurried toward him, and kept right on going, out the door, through the milling crowd and toward the carts rumbling past in the street.
“What in blazes are you doing here, in a place like this?” He caught her elbow just before she reached the street and spun her back toward him.
She refused to be intimidated. “Following a lead. What are you doing here?”
He muttered something that sounded like a Latin curse, tucked her arm in his, and they began walking. “Likewise.”
Two sailors walking past pronounced their approval of her bosom.
Moncreiffe wrapped his arm around her shoulder, tugging her close to his side. “You shouldn’t be in a neighborhood like this, especially dressed like that.”
When she glanced up, he was looking straight ahead, but she was certain he had just been looking down her bosom. She clutched her cloak closed at her throat, hiding a smile. “This is the only way for me to be dressed when I’m in a neighborhood like this.” Since his arm was around her shoulders, and she was dressed like a working girl, she wrapped her arm around his waist, making it absolutely clear she had already found a “customer.”
He glanced down at her, and after a slight hesitation, caressed her shoulder with his fingers. Once more, he was willing to play along.
She gave his trim waist a squeeze in appreciation. Too bad she hadn’t thought to slip her arm under his coat instead of over it. “So tell me about the lead you were following.”
Instead of answering her, he raised his arm and hailed a coach. An elegant, new coach, with the crest of the Duke of Keswick adorning the door.
The driver tipped his hat, and a tiger jumped down from the back to open the door and let down the step.
Moncreiffe spoke a few quiet words to the driver and then handed her inside. To her disappointment, he sat on the opposite bench, his back to the driver, rather than beside her.
She settled against the midnight blue velvet squabs, admiring the coach’s pristine interior, the mellow scent of beeswax and new fabric tickling her senses. Even the glass on the lanterns sparkled.
They rolled along over the cobblestones with a gentle sway rather than teeth-jarring jolts. The only thing that would make it better would be to have Moncreiffe at her side. Though from this perspective, she could gaze upon him without being rude or forward, and trace with her eyes his classically handsome features which would make a sculptor cry. A painter would be better able to capture the intense blue of his eyes, the hint of red in his sensual lips, the tousled honey-brown hair that curled over his collar.
“Does your brother know what you’re doing down here? It’s a wonder he doesn’t lock you in your room.”
A sculptor would want to smooth out that scowl. “My brother is the person who taught me how to do such things as mingle with maids and chat up the doxies at dockside taverns, so locking me up would be rather hypocritical of him, wouldn’t it?”
Moncreiffe shook his head. “If you ever feel the need to do such a dangerous thing again, pray, ask me and I will accompany you. Day or night, just ask. It’s a miracle you were not accosted.”
“Oh, but I was accosted.” She took some delight in his concerned expression, and rested her hand on his knee. “Rest easy, my lord, for I assure you that I can take care of myself, as well as any lecherous sailors foolish enough to cross my path.” She lifted the right side of her skirt high enough for him to see the knife sheath strapped to her calf.
Moncreiffe glanced down, then made a strangled sound low in his throat.
She didn’t usually make a habit of letting men see her stocking-clad leg, but both men this morning had shown appropriate responses. Quite gratifying, really, to know she had that effect.
She thought it prudent not to mention the fact that the leather confection had been made for her by Gauthier as a birthday present, custom fit. Or that there was a matching sheath and knife for her left calf.
She twitched her skirts back into place. “You were going to tell me about the lead you were following, that brought you to Lost Wages?”
He locked his gaze on her face. “This morning I discovered that Sir Nigel is known to be a fence.”
One of the many qualities she admired about Moncreiffe was the way he spoke to her. Though not impervious to her charms—even he couldn’t resist a quick glance now and then, and in this gown she could hardly blame him—he usually addressed her face rather than her bosom, as most men did.
“He mostly deals in small but valuable trinkets, and these items are rumored to change hands here, at Lost Wages.”
Charlotte drummed her fingers on the velvet seat cushion. “That would explain his interest in the snuffbox. I wonder if Melisande stole it at his behest, or was she merely a thief acting on her own, and Nigel is her fence?”
“We still can’t be certain it was Sir Nigel who ended up with the box last night. We have no proof yet.”
“True.” She nibbled on her bottom lip.
Moncreiffe tapped her knee. “Your turn. Why on earth did you come down here?” The dressed like that went unspoken this time, though he flicked his gaze to her exposed décolletage.
Drawing her cloak about her would only attract more attention to herself. “Steven and Gauthier—he’s one of our associates—also learned about the stolen merchandise that moves through Lost Wages. They’ve expressed their interest to the proprietors of the establishment, and think they can simply buy the snuffbox here tomorrow night.”
Moncreiffe’s brows shot up. “So easily?”
She shook her head. “Nigel, or whoever ended up with it last night, stole the box from somebody who had in turn just stolen the box from another thief. They must realize the box holds more value than the precious metal and gemstones of which it is made. Unless they are complete lackwits, they will not sell it with the rest of their common plunder at a place like Lost Wages.”
“Seems logical.”
“The length of time it takes them to find a way to get the most money out of this trinket is the amount of time we have to get it back.”
He nodded slowly. “So our next step is to confirm that it was indeed Sir Nigel we saw last night.”
The coach stopped. Moncreiffe had apparently instructed the driver to go ’round back to the mews, where the tall hedges and garden gate concealed their arrival.
“I will call for you in an hour, as we planned,” he said, handing her out of the carriage. “Or do we need to delay our drive, to give you more time to change?”
“That won’t be necessary. I will be ready on time.”
“You aren’t sickening for something, are you?” Moncreiffe said as soon as he’d helped C
harlotte up into his phaeton, after they’d exited the front of the town house.
“I feel fine. Any reason I should not?” She settled her pale blue muslin skirts around her knees, then gripped the handrail as Moncreiffe snapped the reins and they pulled out into the flow of traffic.
“I’m merely concerned that you may have caught a chill earlier. You look a bit flushed.”
She self-consciously patted her cheeks, which were indeed a bit warm. “That’s what comes of rushing upstairs and having less than five minutes to change before you arrived. Aunt Hermione needed to consult with me on some household matters, and I hadn’t the heart to interrupt her.”
He didn’t need to know that Hermione had actually seen her in the scandalous red dress before she’d even reached the back stairs, and felt compelled to lecture her on appropriate behavior and wardrobe.
“Five minutes? I’m not sure whether I should be impressed at your speed or insulted by the lack of time you spent on your toilette preparing for our excursion.”
Charlotte laughed. “If we were really affianced, you should be insulted. But since we are engaged in an investigation, you can be impressed.”
“Consider me duly impressed, then.”
The phaeton traveled along through the traffic almost effortlessly, Moncreiffe guiding the horse with a gentle hand on the reins. The same hands that had caressed her cheek in the darkness last night, up on the roof. This afternoon, those elegant long fingers were encased in fine kid gloves, soft as butter, no doubt. Would that she could have seen his face when he caressed her last night, what emotion his fathomless blue eyes might have revealed, seen if his heartbeat had quickened as much as hers.
They turned onto another street. With effort, she brought her attention back on task.
“If we can find the owner of the coach we saw last night, and connect him to Sir Nigel, then we should be able to prove Nigel has the box. How many coach makers are we going to visit?”
“None. I thought you might instead enjoy a drive through a neighborhood that used to be quite fashionable but has since fallen from favor.”
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