A Fiery Escort For The Roguish Marquess (Steamy Historical Regency)

by Scarlett Osborne

  She gave Mrs. Miller a short smile. Mumbled something in a syrupy voice about understanding and moving forwards.

  The woman made that strange half-cough again. She emptied her teacup and stood abruptly. “Betsey is mistaken, Miss Bell. I never worked in Pimlico. And I do not know George Owen. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”

  Chapter 8

  Rachel was determined not to be discouraged. She had promised Mr. Jackson she would help him, and that was exactly what she planned to do.

  So, Mrs. Miller did not know George Owen. But she came across countless men in the tavern every week, each of them with their roaming fingers and jangling pockets, determined to secure her attentions. Surely one of them might know someone who knew someone…surely one of them might provide her with a snippet of information so she might offer Mr. Jackson more than just a blank expression when he came calling that Friday.

  And so, she turned herself into the most social of butterflies; greeting and sweet talking every man that walked through the tavern’s doors.

  There were the men who loved the attention, puffing themselves up with pride at the fact she had bothered to seek them out. “No, my love, I don’t know no George Owen. But if I do, you’ll be the first to know.” Sly grin, wink, wink…

  And then there were the self-righteous ones, the ones who looked at her like she was a mess scraped off the bottom of someone’s shoe. Rachel knew this type of man well. In public, they puffed on pipes and preached about whoring and the fires of hell. Then they’d seek her out in the street once she’d left the tavern, offering her extra for a promise of silence. Ah yes, the self-righteous hypocrite was one of Rachel’s favorite type of clients. Surely no one was fooled by their behavior? Did any man truly fearing the fires of hell spend his nights in the White Lion of Bethnal Green?

  But none of the self-righteous hypocrites or the puffed-up men knew anything of a George Owen. Sunday passed, then Monday, and Tuesday, and Rachel began to fear she’d have nothing to share with Mr. Jackson when he arrived.

  “I’m sorry,” she’d tell him, “but I’ve been unable to find anything out.”

  And he would be momentarily unable to hide his disappointment, before telling her it was quite all right and thank you for her help, it was most appreciated. And then off into the night, he would go with his polished words and lamp-blacked hands, and she would never see him again.

  But then on Thursday, came the elusive yes.

  “George Owen? I know the fellow, aye.”

  Rachel’s face lit up. The man she was talking to was a regular in the tavern, but it was the first time they had ever exchanged a word. She leaned over the bar, feeling her breasts push against her tightly-laced stays. The man’s eyes were bright as they lingered on her chest. His face was as lined and wrinkled as she imagined George Owen’s must be.

  “You know him?” she gushed, unable to hide her excitement. “He was a gardener. Do you think it the same man?”

  The man at the bar shrugged, taking a long mouthful of ale. “The George Owen I know’s done nothing but sit on his arse in the ale houses for as long as I’ve known him. But that don’t mean to say he weren’t ever a gardener.”

  Rachel nodded. “Do you think I might speak with him?”

  The man looked at her with a sly grin. “And exactly what does a pretty lass like you want with an old coot like George Owen?”

  “I just wish to speak with him,” she said. “To help…a friend.”

  The man chuckled. “You just wish to speak with him, aye? Well, he will be disappointed…”

  * * *

  George Owen came to the tavern early the following evening. With plenty of daylight left in the day, the inn was still quiet, and Rachel was watching from a stool at the bar when the old man came shuffling through the door. He was dressed in a green tailcoat with patches on the elbows, a battered top hat sitting crookedly on his head.

  “I’ve been sent for,” he announced loudly to the barkeep. “by a Miss Rachel Bell.”

  Rachel slid from her stool and made her way toward him as demurely as possible. She was unsure as yet whether George Owen fell into the puffed-up-with-pride or self-righteous hypocrite category. Best she keeps her options open.

  “Mr. Owen,” she said, peering at him from beneath long dark lashes. “I’m Rachel Bell. Thank you for coming.”

  Owen’s face broke into a wide grin. His remaining teeth were crooked yellow pegs, his tongue flicking in and out of the gaps like a lizard’s. He looked her up and down, his gaze lingering on the bare skin at the top of her bodice.

  Ah, it seems we have ourselves a category one gentleman. Excellent.

  She pressed a light hand to his arm and batted her lashes. “Perhaps we might speak, Mr. Owen?” She gestured to a table in the corner of the tavern.

  Mr. Owen nodded eagerly, following her across the creaking floor. He sat heavily on one of the stools and grinned up at her again.

  “A drink perhaps?” asked Rachel.

  He nodded. “Brandy.”

  Rachel smiled and flitted her way across the bar. She was not in the habit of fetching drinks for men—flat out refused on most occasions—but for George Owen, she would make an exception. She returned with two glasses full of the amber liquid and slid onto the stool beside him, her knees pressing lightly against his.

  Mr. Owen took a large mouthful, not taking his eyes from hers. “My friend says you need my help.” He grinned at her. Yes, definitely a category number one gentleman. His chest was so puffed out he looked as though he had swallowed a cat.

  “Indeed,” she said smoothly. She eyed him. “Could you tell me of your profession, Mr. Owen?”

  He took another mouthful of brandy. “I was a gardener, Miss Bell. And a very fine one too.” He held out a wiry hand. “These old fingers have been making the land beautiful since before you was born.”

  Rachel smiled, her heart beginning to quicken. Could it be that she had found the right man? “Did you ever work in Pimlico?” she asked.

  “Half my life,” Mr. Owen announced proudly. “Plenty of work for a gardener in those parts, so there is. Manors for lords and ladies everywhere you look.” He gave a snort of a laugh. “Different world to this place,” he told Rachel, as though it were brand new information.

  She nodded, trailing a finger over the coarse stitching on the arm of his coat. She leaned closer. “Mr. Owen,” she said, “I wonder if you might do me the honor of meeting with me again tomorrow evening. There’s someone I would like you to meet.”

  Chapter 9

  Ernest was a jittery mess.

  This feeling, he told himself, was all down to the possibility of him discovering something about Unity. Finding proof that his sister was alive would upturn everything he had known to be true. His entire life would have been built on a lie.

  And so he told himself, and told himself, and told himself again. But the truth was inescapable. This jittery feeling was far more about Rachel Bell. The excitement he was feeling had far more to do with seeing her again that the faint possibility that she may have tracked down the mysterious George Owen.

  The fluttering in his stomach was inescapable. It had been there the moment he had woken on Friday morning. Had been there while he forced down his breakfast, had not settled when he’d taken a long walk around the grounds. And now, as the sun was beginning to sink, it had begun to build in intensity.

  Ernest welcomed the feeling.

  How long has it been since I’ve felt excitement like this?

  This was the delicious sensation of anticipation—the thrill of stepping into the fencing ring or facing a man in a duel. Anticipation and excitement were things that had become far too foreign. He’d never felt this restlessness inside him at the thought of seeing any of the young women who had been foisted on him as potential wives. He smiled to himself as he made his way upstairs to his rooms. This feeling made him feel alive.

  He took Phillips’ greatcoat from his wardrobe, along with the c
orduroy trousers. Had their owner any thought they were missing, he wondered distantly? He’d offer the man a shilling or two for the trouble if he weren’t too embarrassed to find out who they belonged to. He hung the clothes over the chaise in the corner of the room. How strange they looked, draped over the lavish gold-threaded upholstery.

  He hesitated.

  Lampblack. Lampblack and lard.

  When he turned up at the tavern that evening, he would be the struggling miner Rachel had turned him into. He would follow her instructions to the letter. But how on earth did a man go about procuring lampblack and lard?

  He crept downstairs toward the basement kitchen, holding his breath as the floorboards creaked beneath him. Past Mrs. Graham’s quarters he went, past the laundry, his heart pounding as though he were about to march into battle.

  The kitchen was empty. Ernest let out his breath in relief. He tiptoed inside and looked about him. The room was a miasma of delicious smells, the bread loaf cooling on the edge of the bench, the lamb and herb stew bubbling on the range. The shelves above the range were neatly arranged with tools Ernest had never seen before. Who could have imagined the preparation of food might require such an array of bizarre instruments? He turned in a circle, utterly bewildered. Where among all this might a man find a little lard for his hair?

  “My Lord?”

  He whirled around, to see their kitchen maid, Mary hovering in the doorway, a look of bewilderment plastered across her face.

  “Can I help you, My Lord?” she asked in a tiny voice.

  “Lard,” Ernest blurted. He felt color rising in his cheeks.

  Mary’s eyebrows shot up. “Lard, My Lord?”

  He nodded. “If you please.”

  “And bread, My Lord?”

  “No,” said Ernest, “just the lard.”

  Mary eyed him quizzically but scurried across the kitchen to the cool room. She reappeared with a small hunk of lard wrapped in a cloth and handed it to him. Ernest nodded his thanks and hurried back upstairs. He sat the lard on his dressing table and scratched his bristly chin in thought.

  Lampblack. Where would he go about getting such a thing? Many women wore it on their eyelids, he knew. Women like Rachel Bell. But he could hardly imagine the Duchess doing such a thing. And he dare not venture into the rooms of any of the servants. Imagine the scandal!

  He paced back and forth across the room, rubbing his bristly chin. And then it came to him. He didn’t need lampblack, he could simply use charcoal. Smiling to himself, Ernest went to the hearth and carried a lump of coal back to the dressing table. He chuckled to himself. This, he was quite sure, was the strangest toilet he had ever undertaken.

  Ernest dressed himself in the torn trousers and greatcoat, then sat in front of the mirror with the lard in front of him. He rubbed the grease between his fingers to warm it and began to work it through his hair in the same careful manner he remembered Rachel doing. Soon, his hair was filthy and rising from his head at an array of strange angles. He rolled the coal about in his palms for a few moments, until his hands and nails were sufficiently blackened. He looked at his reflection and smiled. A miner indeed. Rachel would be proud of him.

  Ernest strode through the city, brimming with fresh energy. The churning in his stomach had intensified. Perhaps, behind this excitement at seeing Rachel, there was a small part of him that was worried about what he might find out. After all, Phillips had warned him to be careful. What was it the old man had said?

  “Make sure you’re ready for what you might find.”

  Ernest wasn’t entirely sure if he was ready, but he was going to do this anyway. He shoved open the door of the White Lion. The tavern was noisy and thick with pipe smoke. A crash of glasses rose up from a group of men in one corner, followed by a loud peal of laughter.

  Ernest caught sight of her immediately. There she was in a corner, a hand boldly on her hip as she stood close to a man in a blue broadcloth coat and a shiny silver scarf. Ernest felt a strange, unbidden rush of jealousy. And then she looked past the man in the scarf, her eyes catching his across the room. A wide smile appeared on her face, and she began to sashay across the room toward him.

  Chapter 10

  Rachel’s heart was thumping as she crossed the tavern. She could hear the man in the broadcloth coat calling after her.

  “Where are you going, wench? I got money!”

  Yes, yes, they all had money. Piles of it, even the men in this place. When women were willing to lift their skirts, even the poorest of men managed to scrabble together a few pennies.

  Ernest Jackson was early. Rachel had fleetingly considered taking the man with the scarf upstairs—the silk at his neck was clearly stolen, so she’d guessed he had some pilfered money in his pocket too—presuming it would be hours until Mr. Jackson arrived. But at the sight of him hovering by the bar in that ridiculous greatcoat, any thoughts of other men had immediately left her.

  She smiled broadly, looking up and down at his tousled hair and filthy nails. “Look at you. A street urchin if ever I saw one.”

  He laughed. “Lard,” he explained, gesturing to the greasy chaos of his hair.

  “You’re a fine student,” said Rachel. Her face broke into a wide smile. “I found him!” she announced. “George Owen.”

  Mr. Jackson’s eyebrows shot up. “You found him?”

  She nodded excitedly. “Aye. He’s coming to meet us tonight.”

  “You found him?” Mr. Jackson repeated, his smile broadening. He laughed. “You’re a marvel, Miss Bell, truly. I—” He gripped her shoulders, planting an impulsive kiss on her cheek. “I’m amazed.”

  Rachel’s cheeks flushed at the unexpected contact. As soon as he pulled his hands away, she found herself craving his touch again. She cleared her throat. “He ought to be here shortly,” he said huskily. “I told him to meet us here at nine.” She glanced around the tavern. The place was rammed with bodies and filled with laughter and the crashing of glasses. She thought of the quiet bedroom above their heads. Such a place would be a far better one for them to speak than the noisy tavern. But she felt an odd reluctance to take Mr. Jackson up there again. Would such a thing seem too forward?

  Rachel almost laughed. How many men had she taken upstairs to that filthy bedroom? And now she felt guilty?

  To hell with it.

  Mr. Jackson knew well what she was. No doubt George Owen did, too. Everyone in this place did. And it was far too noisy for them to speak in the tavern. Besides, stay down here and she’d be harassed all night by that beast in the stolen scarf. She sucked in her courage. “Perhaps we might go upstairs? I can have the barkeep send Mr. Owen up when he arrives.” She realized she was holding her breath.

  But Mr. Jackson smiled and nodded.

  Rachel led him up the staircase, ignoring the hot glare of the man in the scarf. She slid the key into the lock and pushed open the door. Her heart was thudding, and her palms were hot. She’d never felt nervous bringing a man up here before. Not even the first time. Then, she just resigned herself to the pain, closed her eyes and imagined herself at the seaside, while the owner of the local pawnshop had grunted and juddered on top of her. It’d all been over in less than three minutes. There’d not been time for nerves.

  She gestured for Mr. Jackson to sit, then reached beneath the bed for the bottle of brandy she kept beneath the mattress. She turned to him and held up the bottle.

  “A drink?”

  “Wonderful.”

  Rachel poured two glasses, then sat at the stool beside him. She took a tiny sip, feeling the liquor slide hot down her throat. She looked across the table at him. Candlelight was flickering on his cheeks and highlighting the sharpness of his jaw. Dark stubble had begun to darken his chin. Rachel smiled to herself. It suited him.

  She pulled her eyes away hurriedly, suddenly aware that she was staring.

  “How did you find him?” he asked finally.

  Rachel looked into her glass. “Just asked around til I found someone who
knew him.” She gave him a cautious glance. “I meet plenty of men in my line of work, Mr. Jackson.”

  He smiled. “I’m sure.”

  “I met with Mr. Owen last night. He told me he was a gardener in Pimlico for many years.”

  “I’m grateful to you.” The corner of Mr. Jackson’s lips turned up. “For both finding Mr. Owen and for helping me fit into this place a little better. I made it all the way to tavern without anyone staring. Perhaps people do really believe I’m a miner.”

  Rachel gave a short laugh. “Keep your mouth shut, and I’m sure they will.”