by Amanda Quick
“What sort of message?”
“It’s from an old associate of mine, a part-time smuggler named One-Eared Harry. He hangs out around the docks. I occasionally purchased information from him during the war.”
Emma was aghast. “Good heavens. What sort of information would a smuggler have to sell to you?”
Edison shrugged. “News of the comings and goings of ships in the waters controlled by the French. Details of the terrain near the coast. Locations of military garrisons. The usual.”
She narrowed her eyes. “And just why would you want such information, sir?”
“I am a man with many varied business interests,” he said. “I could not allow them to come to a complete halt simply because Napoleon was out to conquer the world.”
“Of course not,” she muttered.
It would probably be best not to pursue this line of inquiry further. She was not certain that she wanted to discover that Edison had practiced a bit of smuggling during the war with France. Intolerable to imagine letting Napoleon get in the way of one’s financial interests.
Edison looked amused by her frosty glare. “Occasionally some of the information I gained from One-Eared Harry was also of use to the authorities. I, of course, passed it along.”
“I see.” So he had once been a spymaster. “You have had a very adventurous life, sir. What sort of information do you think this One-Eared Harry person has for you this evening?”
“I sent word to him yesterday that I would pay for any information regarding the man who attacked us in Lady Ames’s garden. Harry has a knack for falling in with bad company.”
“I see.” She raised her brows. “Since you appear to be on speaking terms with Harry, I assume that you have the same knack.”
He grinned fleetingly. “A man with extensive business interests must be flexible.”
“That’s one word for it, I suppose.”
“In any event, I have hopes that Harry has learned something useful.” Edison glanced out at the dark street. His jaw tightened. “Lorring told me not to waste my time making inquiries in this direction, but I have a feeling that it may lead to some answers.”
A distinct chill went through Emma, similar to the one she had experienced outside the theater a short while earlier. Now she knew that it was not connected to a discussion of the Incident. Something far more dangerous was abroad tonight.
“Where will you meet with this One-Eared Harry?” she asked.
“At a tavern called the Red Demon near the docks.”
Another whisper of dread flashed down Emma’s spine. “Edison, I do not like this scheme of yours.”
“There is nothing in it to alarm you.”
She struggled to put into words what she had never been able to explain. “I have a nasty feeling about it. Everyone knows that the neighborhood near the docks is dangerous, especially at this hour of the night.”
“Your concern for the safety of your employer is, as always, appreciated.” He smiled grimly. “Don’t worry, Emma, I’ll survive to pay you your wages and write that bloody reference.”
Her temper flared without warning. She clenched her gloved hands in her lap.
“Mr. Stokes, I have had quite enough of your sarcasm. I happen to be a rather intuitive person, and I have a premonition about your plan to meet this One-Eared Harry person tonight. I was merely trying to give you a warning.”
“Consider the warning delivered.” He leaned forward and caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “And in exchange, I shall give you one.”
“What is that?”
“Do not allow Basil Ware to get you alone under any circumstances.” Edison’s expression was as cold as a January storm. “Stay away from him, Emma. He sees you as nothing more than a prize to be stolen in a vicious little game. If he is successful, he will lose all interest in you.”
She was suddenly breathless. She fought the unnerving sensation with anger.
“Do you think I do not know what sort of man he is? I am an expert in such creatures, sir. I do not require your advice.”
“Nevertheless, as your employer, I feel obliged to give it.”
“I assure you, I can take care of myself. See to it that you heed my warning tonight, sir.”
“I will.”
He released her, sat back, and swiftly unknotted his snow white cravat. She watched with growing unease as he dropped the neckcloth on the seat and pulled up the collar of his greatcoat. He made a few other minor adjustments such as concealing his watch fob. When he was finished with the simple transformation, he was once again garbed only in darkness and shadow.
“Edison, I mean it,” she whispered. “Promise me you will be exceedingly careful tonight.”
His smile had a feral edge to it. “Will you give me a kiss for luck?”
She hesitated. And then, in spite of his dangerous smile, she leaned forward and brushed her mouth lightly across his. He was clearly surprised by the fleeting intimacy. She drew back just as he started to react. He gazed at her for a long moment with enigmatic eyes.
“You do realize that you cannot avoid forever the subject of what happened between us,” he said quite casually.
Emma ignored him. “Concerning my own plans for the evening, I have changed my mind, sir. I will not go home after all. You may have your coachman deliver me to the Smithton soirée. When you have finished your meeting at the docks, you may join me there. I will want a full report of all that you learn from One-Eared Harry.”
Chapter Eighteen
The Red Demon exuded the smoky, unwholesome atmosphere that was common to such places. A colorful assortment of dockworkers, villains, prostitutes, and others who eked out a living on the edges of the stews occupied the wooden benches. Mugs of ale and the remains of meat pies littered the tables.
One-Eared Harry sat across from Edison. What remained of his left ear was partially concealed by long, greasy hair and a scarf tied around his head. Edison had heard at least three different versions of the tale involving the loss of Harry’s ear. The first involved a fight with a drunken sailor. The second concerned an angry prostitute who had objected to not getting paid for her services. The third had something to do with a gang of thieves who had attempted to steal one of Harry’s shipments of smuggled French brandy.
Harry considered Edison a friend, but he had never been one to let friendship stand in the way of business. Edison knew he had to remember that the enterprising smuggler sold false information as industriously as he did the more truthful sort. Still, Harry had some standards. And he and Edison went back a long way In any event, Edison thought, he could not afford to be overly choosy about his sources in this venture.
“I noticed ‘im first on account of ‘e moves a bit like you do, Mr. Stokes.” Harry cast a wary glance around the smoky room and then leaned across the table. “Smooth and quiet like. Most of the time ‘e sort of fades into the woodwork. Ye don’t even know ‘e’s around unless ‘e wants you to see ‘im. And ‘e favors black clothing like yerself.”
Edison tried to ignore the sour, musty odor that wafted across the table. He was fairly certain that the only times Harry bathed were on those occasions when he got roaring drunk on French brandy and fell into the river. Such immersions did little good, the river being dirtier than Harry.
“When did you first notice him?” Edison asked.
Harry screwed up his face in what was apparently a considering expression. “A fortnight back, it was. We keep an eye on strangers around ‘ere, as ye well know. When I ‘eard ye was lookin’ for someone who favored dark clothes, kept to ‘imself, and was willin’ to pay for information regarding yerself, sir, I thought of ‘im.”
“Describe this man,” Edison said.
“Can’t rightly say what ‘e looks like. Never seen ‘im in the daylight.”
“How tall is he?”
Harry pursed his lips. “About as tall as yerself, sir. Younger, though, I’d say. Much younger.”
“Heavily b
uilt?”
Harry looked surprised. “No, sir. Now that ye mention it, ‘e’s on the slender side. Sort of thin and wiry. Moves like a cat.”
“I am not going to pay you for such vague information, Harry. If you cannot tell me what he looks like or where he can be found, then what have you got to sell to me?”
A feverish glint of greed appeared in Harry’s eyes. He took a quick swallow of ale, wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve, and leaned closer. “I think I know where ‘e’s got ‘is lodgings.”
Anticipation unfurled in Edison’s gut. But he had done enough business with Harry over the years to know better than to allow it to show.
“You can tell me where he lives?”
“Aye. Last night when I was strollin’ back to me room above the Fat Mermaid, I noticed ‘im goin’ into the kitchen door of a pie shop in Oldhead Lane. The widow who owns the shop rents out rooms.” Harry paused. “Leastways, I think it was ‘im.”
“Why do you doubt it?”
“Because ‘e was movin’ differently from the last time I saw ‘im. Not so smooth and easy. Like maybe ‘e’d been hurt.” Harry clutched at his own ribs and groaned to demonstrate. “Like ‘e’d been kicked by a ‘orse. Or maybe been in a fight.”
Edison sat back and thought about it. He was fairly certain he had landed at least one solid blow to the Vanza fighter’s thigh and another to his shoulder.
“What time did you see him?”
Harry shrugged. “‘Ard to tell, sir. Late, that’s all I know.”
It was possible that this time Harry was selling solid information. On the other hand, it all sounded a bit too helpful. Edison considered the possibilities for a moment and then shrugged.
“All right, Harry. I shall pay you.”
Harry’s mouth blossomed into a wide, toothless grin. “Thank ye, sir. I ‘ope ye find the bugger. Fair gives me the shivers, ‘e does. Wouldn’t mind seein’ ‘im gone from the neighborhood.”
He pocketed the banknotes that Edison passed to him under the table, finished his ale, and surged to his feet. He turned, hurried through the crowded tavern, opened the door, and stepped out into the dark street. Edison waited a moment longer. Then he rose, walked to the rear of the premises, as though on his way to the privy, and slipped outside.
Instead of making his way to the jakes, however, he went around the corner of the tavern. The yellow glow of Harry’s lantern glimmered in the light fog that had crawled out of the river. The bobbing light disappeared into a black lane. Edison followed.
Emma rubbed her arms. “Does it feel cold in here to you, Miranda?”
“Not in the least.” Miranda glanced around the crowded ballroom. “It’s rather warm, actually. Are you feeling chilled?”
“A bit.”
In truth, she had been feeling perfectly comfortable until a moment ago. The sensation that stirred the fine hair on her arms had come out of nowhere, as though an icy wind had blown through the overheated room.
Miranda eyed her with sharp interest. “You have had too much excitement of late. Why don’t we go into one of the smaller rooms and sit down for a few minutes?”
The idea held a certain appeal, but Emma wished that it had been someone other than Miranda who had suggested it. On the other hand, she told herself bracingly, she was employed to serve as bait. This was a perfect opportunity to try her own hand at probing into Miranda’s mysterious past. It would be quite satisfying to surprise Edison with more information that he had been unable to obtain for himself.
“Excellent notion,” Emma said politely. “I believe I would like to sit down for a few minutes.”
“It is too bad that I do not have any of my special herbal tea with me. It’s very effective for warding off chills and fevers.”
It took an effort but Emma managed not to heave a small sigh of relief. “I’m sure one of Lady Smithton’s maids could bring us a pot of regular tea.”
“Yes, of course.”
They made their way through the crush into the hall. One of the footmen ushered them into a small sitting-room and went off to fetch a tea tray.
“Poor thing,” Miranda murmured as they sat down in front of the fire. “You are not accustomed to the demands of the social world, are you? I expect it is all very wearying for you.”
“Fortunately, I have a strong constitution,” Emma said brightly. “It was a necessity in my previous career.”
“I can well imagine it was. But I suspect that the demands of your engagement to Stokes are proving even more rigorous, albeit vastly more entertaining, than those you encountered as a paid companion, hmm?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Miranda gave her a wink and a knowing smile. “Come now, Emma. We are both women of the world. And it is no secret that you have, shall we say, already allowed your fiancé a taste of the goods.”
Emma felt heat flood her cheeks and was furious with herself for the blush. Fortunately, the harried footman returned with the tea tray at that moment. She took the opportunity to recover her self-possession.
“I have no idea what you are talking about, madam,” she said briskly when they were alone again.
Miranda gave her shivery little laugh. “Going to play the role of the virgin bride, are you? How delightful. But I must tell you the effect has already been somewhat spoiled by the events at Ware Castle. After all, everyone there did see you in your nightclothes and wrapper. And I must remind you that it was Stokes himself who assured Ware’s guests that you had been with him when Crane was murdered.”
Emma made a noncommittal response and covered it with another sip of tea.
Miranda’s eyes glittered. “Never say that was not true?”
Oh no you don’t, you witch. You are not going to trip me up on that point.
“It was all perfectly true, Miranda. But a trifle awkward in terms of my reputation.” Emma smiled blandly. “Not, however, as awkward as hanging for murder.”
“I understand.” Miranda propped her delicate chin on her hand and looked at Emma with a confiding air. “But really there is no need to be coy. As there are only the two of us at the moment, I cannot resist asking you what you think of Stokes’s tattoo.”
Emma nearly dropped her cup. “His what?”
Some of the self-assured certainty vanished from Miranda’s eyes.
“His tattoo. Surely you have seen it. After all, you have been intimate with him.”
“Gentlemen do not have tattoos,” Emma said forcefully. “Men who go to sea and pirates have them, or so I have been told. But certainly not gentlemen of Mr. Stokes’s station.”
Miranda kept her smile but there was a pinched quality to it.
“Perhaps in the darkness you did not notice it.”
“I have no notion of what you are talking about.”
Miranda’s eyes widened. “Dear me, do you mean to say that he does not take his shirt off when he makes love to you? How very disappointing. I myself enjoy the sight of a manly chest.”
Emma was bloody well not going to admit that the one and only time he had made love to her, Edison had not bothered to remove his shirt. She put the teacup down with great precision and looked straight at Miranda.
“I am well aware that I am new to the ways of the ton, Lady Ames. You must forgive me if I am mistaken, but I was under the impression that it is considered quite vulgar for ladies to kiss and tell.”
“I beg your pardon.” Miranda’s expression hardened. “Just what are you implying?”
“I cannot believe that a well-bred lady would ever discuss such things as tattoos and manly chests. Surely only a certain kind of female, a member of the demimonde,” Emma paused just long enough to give emphasis to her next words, “or perhaps an actress, would actually boast of a sexual conquest.”
The effect on Miranda was instantaneous. Her jaw dropped. She jerked as if she had been struck. Her eyes turned glassy with malice. Her rage was a palpable force in the room.
“How dare you imply that I
am vulgar?” Miranda’s voice was a grating whisper. “You are the one who is as common as dirt. You were nothing but a paid companion before Stokes took a notion to save you from the hangman’s noose. If I were you, I would start worrying about just why he bothered. You are certainly not the sort of woman a man in his position would ever marry. Why, you are no better than—”
She broke off abruptly, leaped to her feet in a rustle of satin, and swept out the door. The air around her crackled with her fury.
Miranda did know how to make an exit, Emma noted. Yet more evidence that she had once trod the boards. And it was clear that a nerve had been struck with the reference to ill-bred actresses. That will teach you to tangle with a professional companion, Emma thought.
It was only when the spurt of triumph faded that the full realization of what she had just done hit her. She had as much as told Miranda outright that she knew about her past career as an actress. What on earth had come over her? She might very well have put her wonderful new post in jeopardy with her rash words. If Miranda panicked and took flight, Edison would no longer need any bait. He would no longer need her, Emma thought.
A cold feeling settled into the pit of her stomach. Emma clenched one gloved hand into a fist. If only the witch had not made that reference to Edison’s tattoo. It was as good as an admission that they had had at least one tryst. When had it occurred? Emma wondered. At Ware Castle? Or afterward, here in Town? She recalled the way Edison had hovered over Miranda’s hand in the theater box earlier that evening. Just how far had he gone in his efforts to learn more about the actress’s mysterious past?
Another chill of dread trickled down her spine, jolting Emma out of her grim reverie. The sensation of being touched by ghostly fingers had nothing to do with her unhappy imaginings concerning Miranda and Edison.
Edison was in danger. She was sure of it. But there was not a thing she could do about it.
The unmistakable stench of the Thames was especially strong tonight. Edison would have known where he was even if he had been blindfolded. The river had made London a great trading port. Indeed, he was well aware that he owed a substantial portion of his fortune to it. But it also functioned as the city’s sewer. On any given day it was thick with the offal of cesspits and stables, the carcasses of dead animals, and the occasional victim of a footpad. He stood in the shadows of a fog-shrouded doorway and listened to One-Eared Harry pound on the door of a dock shed.