“Awful lot of them in the courtyard where I grew up,” Keys said with great dignity.
Gideon nodded, fighting down the curl of his lips, for he had no wish to hurt the younger man’s feelings. “You’re a wise man, Keys.”
Keys flushed with evident happiness at the praise. “Kind o’ you to say, guv.”
Gideon tilted his mug to Keys in salute before drinking. “What would you suggest, then, to win back my wife, since you’re such a philosopher? God knows I’ve tried everything. I even bought her a bunch of flowers. She gave them to the scullery maid.”
“Well, and I’m sure that most ladies do love flowers.” Keys cleared his throat. “But I’m wondering if’n Mistress ’Awthorne might like something else.”
“Like what?” Gideon asked impatiently. He hated being ignorant at any time, but with this—how to woo Messalina—he felt a right fool. He glared at Keys. “Bonbons?”
Keys cocked his head. “Are bonbons what she really wants?”
Gideon frowned as he kept his eye on the entrance to the coffeehouse. It was true that he hadn’t much experience with wooing women. His infrequent trysts in the past had mostly been of the one-time variety: enjoyable to both parties, but also, by silent agreement, not taken seriously.
But now he was very serious.
What did Messalina truly want? What would win her over?
Because Keys was right: his mind was divided, constantly thinking of her and their strife even as he went about his daily tasks. It was like a sore on his soul, the…the aching distress it caused him that she no longer smiled at him.
That she avoided him.
He wanted her back in his bed, but it was more than that. He wanted to watch her sip her tea again. Wanted to take her walking in the park. Wanted to ask her opinions on business and food and the theater.
Wanted to simply hold her in his arms as she slept.
Just thinking of her absence made him feel hollow—as if something crucial were missing from inside him.
The door to the coffeehouse opened and Greycourt entered.
“Hsst!” Keys warned him.
“I see.” Gideon propped his head on one hand, partially concealing his face.
He watched out of the corner of his eye as Greycourt said something to the old woman supplying the coffee, making her grin so wide that it was clear she had an entirely toothless mouth. Greycourt strode to a table under one of the windows and accepted a tall tankard of coffee.
“I thought you said he was meeting someone,” Gideon muttered.
As if in answer, a man with his hat pulled low over his face entered. The newcomer went directly to Greycourt’s table and doffed his hat as he sat.
Gideon sucked in a breath.
It was the Earl of Rookewoode.
* * *
“A slice of seedcake?” Messalina asked Lady Gilbert that afternoon.
“Oh, thank you,” the older woman replied, passing her plate.
It was entirely Lucretia’s fault that they were holding an afternoon tea. Had Messalina her druthers, she would be facedown on the bed she shared with Lucretia, wallowing in her own misery. But yesterday Lucretia had bullied her into going shopping on Bond Street, where they’d run into Lady Gilbert.
Messalina well remembered the older woman’s gleeful urge to gossip on the stairs at the theater. She thought surely Lady Gilbert would have relished the scandalous scene at Uncle Augustus’s ball.
But Lady Gilbert had looked rather more lonely than mean. Before Messalina knew what Lucretia was about, her sister had invited the lady to tea. And then Lucretia had somehow persuaded Messalina to invite the Hollands and Freya and Elspeth.
Only Lady Gilbert was in attendance at the moment. Messalina was a bit amused, despite her own troubles. Lady Gilbert’s cheeks were pink beneath her lavender hair and it was quite evident she was enjoying herself.
Perhaps Lucretia was right to have insisted on this tea.
“…and the lady never did find her garters,” Lady Gilbert said, concluding some scandalous tale Messalina had lost track of.
“Really?” Lucretia was on the edge of her seat and leaning so far forward toward Lady Gilbert that Messalina was worried she’d tumble to the floor. “I had no idea.”
Lady Gilbert nodded knowingly.
“But…” Lucretia’s brows drew together. “Whatever happened to the pet parrot?”
“Weeell,” Lady Gilbert began on a deep breath.
The door opened and their new butler, Crusher, intoned, “Her Grace the Duchess of Harlowe, Lady Elspeth de Moray, Lady Holland, and the Misses Holland.”
All five ladies crowded into the room.
Elspeth was staring after the retreating butler.
Lady Holland smiled at Messalina. “How lovely to have tea with you and Lucretia and of course Lady Gilbert.”
There was a flurry of introductions and curtsies.
Messalina sat on the settee, patting the space beside her for Freya. Her old friend was wearing a beautiful turquoise-and-white-striped gown, the crisp colors showing off her red hair, piled elegantly on her head. But Freya’s green eyes were concerned.
Blast. She’d always been perceptive.
“How are you, darling?” Freya murmured.
Messalina shook her head. If she spoke, she might burst into tears.
Lucretia had already rung for more water and was handing out seedcake on little plates.
“Are you enjoying matrimony?” Lady Holland asked Freya archly.
Freya smiled crookedly, glancing worriedly at Messalina. “Perhaps more than I should.”
Regina and Arabella giggled.
Messalina made herself hold Freya’s gaze. It wasn’t her friend’s fault that Messalina’s own marriage had failed so miserably. Freya should be able to celebrate her union with Kester. After all, they had married for love. Theirs would be a marriage of mutual love and genuine affection. Messalina had come so very close to that. So very close.
Except it had all been a lie.
Still she held out her hand for a slice of seedcake, a determined smile on her face. She ignored the worried look in both Lucretia’s and Freya’s eyes.
Messalina picked up her cooling tea, letting the talk of engagements and weddings wash over her. She ought to dump the tea and take a fresh cup.
All at once her longing for Gideon overwhelmed her. She missed him.
Damn him.
The man had betrayed her, and his only worry was finding a way to lure her back into his bed. As if his lies and deceit could be simply forgotten. Even his gifts were insulting. She loathed cut flowers. They died and left a cloyingly sweet scent in the air.
If only his regard had been true. If only she could trust that his feelings were real when he looked at her with those wicked black eyes.
“We had a small wedding,” Freya said, interrupting her brooding thoughts. “In the village church near his country house. It was lovely.”
“But were any of your family there?” Lady Holland asked with interest.
“I’m afraid it was just us and the witnesses,” Freya said apologetically.
“Fancy if your brother the duke had come,” Regina exclaimed. “There would have been two dukes under one roof.” She squinted as if seeing the scene. “I wonder which duke would take precedence?”
“I don’t know.” Freya met Messalina’s gaze and said lightly, “But I’m afraid Ran doesn’t like to leave Edinburgh.”
Messalina gave Freya a sympathetic look. Ranulf de Moray, the Duke of Ayr, didn’t even leave his town house in Edinburgh, as she understood it. He’d lost his right hand to infection after the terrible events of the night Aurelia died. The tragedy had changed him forever—much as it had Julian and Quintus.
And her.
The conversation ebbed and flowed around Messalina. She tried to take part, remembering every once in a while to paste the smile back on her face, but mostly she simply sat.
That is, until Lucretia’s voice rose, dr
awing her attention. “Lemon curd is much better than apple tarts.”
Elspeth raised her eyebrows placidly. “Is it?”
Lucretia all but sputtered.
Messalina caught Elspeth’s eye at that moment, and the younger woman winked quickly.
Messalina’s lips quirked. The minx! Sweet, calm Elspeth was deliberately teasing Lucretia, and Lucretia hadn’t yet caught on.
One had to have respect for anyone who could bamboozle Lucretia.
The door to the sitting room opened, and Sam came in with Daisy.
“Oh, good, Daisy’s here.” Elspeth smiled at the boy. “And Sam.”
Messalina beckoned him to her.
Sam came to stand at attention, his eyes wide.
Meanwhile Daisy had trotted over to the Hollands.
“What an adorable puppy!” Arabella exclaimed, picking him up, and Daisy was passed around to be admired.
Lady Gilbert said, “I once knew a viscountess who had a three-legged pug.”
Elspeth turned with interest. “Did you?”
“Oh yes.” Lady Gilbert went off on a long, convoluted story that only Elspeth seemed to follow.
Messalina reached over and absently gave a slice of seedcake to Sam.
He was such a sweet lad. She’d begun to plan for perhaps opening a free grammar school for St Giles boys.
She’d have to leave behind both that dream and Sam himself.
Messalina bit her lip.
She’d had her courses this morning. The thought that they would never have children that Gideon could hold over her should make her glad. It should be a relief.
It was a relief.
Except she would like children. Gideon’s children, despite his betrayal. She could see in her mind’s eye a little girl, her black curls bouncing as she ran. Or a boy, solemn and serious, with black eyes under slanting eyebrows.
Her breast ached at the vision.
“We ought to gather more often.” Lucretia glanced at Messalina and assumed a very determined look—an expression that Messalina was familiar with. That expression had once led to a live piglet in the nursery and the abrupt departure of the governess.
The governess had been the third that year, if Messalina recalled correctly.
“I propose we have a monthly salon,” Lucretia said gravely. “To discuss matters of great importance.”
“Such as three-legged dogs?” Regina asked confusedly.
“Three-legged dogs,” Elspeth mused, “lemon curd versus apple tarts, and books. Books are very important.” She thought a second and then amended, “Oh, and butlers.”
“Butlers?” Freya asked.
Elspeth looked at her earnestly. “They’re quite mysterious. Haven’t you noticed?”
“I think it a very good idea.” Arabella suddenly spoke up. “I’d like a place to discuss things other than fashion.”
She glanced around the room to nodding faces.
Lucretia beamed.
Messalina was unsure if this idea was viable. After all, if she left with Lucretia, they would never have a chance to participate in this new salon.
But Lucretia obviously wasn’t thinking of that. She clapped her hands. “Wonderful! Then we’ll meet next month?”
All of the ladies nodded and began discussing topics they might explore at their next salon.
Beside Messalina, Sam had slowly slumped to the floor and was now asleep against the settee.
She smiled down at the boy as the others talked around her. She was fond of Sam. The thought of him alone on the dangerous streets of St Giles, without friend or comfort, made her heart ache. How many other boys like Sam were still in St Giles?
If only she could found her school…
Lady Holland rose and began politely taking her leave with her daughters. Lady Gilbert followed suit, and after dismissing Sam and Daisy, Messalina walked with her guests to the front door of Whispers.
“I’d like to stay a bit longer,” Freya said casually. “It’s been such a while since I’ve had an intimate chat with Messalina.”
“Then we’ll say our goodbyes,” Lady Holland said.
Lucretia, Freya, Elspeth, and Messalina watched the ladies enter two carriages, and one of the new footmen closed the door.
Freya turned at once to Messalina. “Where can we talk?”
“The sitting room again.” Messalina led the way back, conscious that Lucretia was looking curious.
Freya waited until they four were in the sitting room alone before turning to Messalina. “Out with it. Why are you so sad?”
Messalina closed her eyes, and the whole wretched story came tumbling out—how she had disastrously succumbed to Gideon’s wiles, the revelation of his lies, and the frozen politeness of their marriage now.
When she had finished some minutes later, Freya was silent.
Lucretia bent forward and poured a cup of tea and handed it to Messalina. It was barely lukewarm, of course, but Messalina drank it anyway, willing her fingers to stop trembling.
Elspeth said in a very serious voice, “Shall I kill him for you?”
Lucretia stared at her. “Have you killed a man before?”
Elspeth shrugged. “No, but I don’t think it would be very hard.”
Lucretia looked respectful.
At last Freya inhaled and looked frankly at Messalina. “What do you want now?”
“I…” Messalina frowned. “What do you mean? Lucretia and I will leave when I get the money.”
“That’s one choice.”
“What are the others?” Lucretia asked.
“You could stay with Hawthorne,” Freya said, keeping her gaze steady on Messalina. “This is where your family is, where your friends are. Do you really wish to never see them again?”
“He’s a lying rogue,” Lucretia said with quiet venom. “A manipulative, lying rogue.”
Freya inclined her head. “Yes, he is. But you see, I’m not the one married to him.” Her voice lowered. “I’m not the one who welcomed him into my bed by all appearances quite happily. Am I wrong?”
Elspeth’s eyes widened.
Lucretia started to object, but Freya held up her hand.
“No, you’re not wrong.” Messalina pressed her lips together. “But I don’t see what you’re getting at.”
“I think you must’ve had some feeling for your husband. I think you may still have feelings for him.” Freya sighed and sank back on the settee. “The question is, is that enough to stay?”
“I…” Messalina swallowed. “I can’t stay.” She looked across at Lucretia. “We can’t stay. Our uncle plans to force Lucretia into marriage as well.”
Her sister went white, but she lifted her chin bravely. “I knew it. Nasty old man.”
Elspeth scooted a little closer to her.
But Freya nodded. “Then it’s settled.” She rose. “Remember, though, we don’t choose whom we love, none of us. You’re angry now and with good reason. He’s been despicable to you. But that doesn’t stop love. No matter how much we wish it would.” She looked at Messalina. “Do you love a lying, manipulative rogue, who likes to fight with knives?”
Messalina’s brain was awhirl with doubts and fears, base longings and feelings. “I…have feelings for Gideon, but I don’t know if I love him. And I can’t tell if all his talk was lies or the truth, perhaps hidden even from himself.”
“You need to find out.” Freya nodded. “I suggest you stay until you’re certain—one way or the other.”
* * *
Gideon’s tankard was empty. He’d long since finished his second round of coffee while Keys was gamely still sipping—and wincing over—his first. Across the room, Greycourt was sitting with Sir Samuel Peabody, Lord Hardly, and Rookewoode. Three of the men bent low over the table, their heads close together as they discussed whatever business they had. Greycourt of course was too proud to bend his head. He merely leaned a little forward, his long braid of black hair over his shoulder, that foppish pearl dangling from his
ear.
Ass.
Gideon had never been particularly fond of Julian Greycourt, but after the man had set Messalina against Gideon, he positively loathed him.
Really, it ought to be easy to kill the man.
Instead he was wasting his time watching him.
Gideon’s eyes narrowed. Greycourt was clever, wasn’t he? And he moved in the highest aristocratic circles.
Why did the old man want him dead?
“Do they mean to stay all day?” groaned Keys. “I ’ave to piss like a bloody ’orse.”
Gideon snorted into his empty tankard. “Drank too much?”
Keys looked at his tankard. “S’pose I could use this to hold my piss. Wouldn’t change the taste that much.”
“I’ll be sure to tell the proprietress,” Gideon replied absently. Rookewoode had leaned back, and the others were making movements preparatory to rising.
“Oh, thank God,” Keys moaned as the group left the coffeehouse. “I’m for the bog.”
Gideon frowned as he stood. “I can’t wait for you. I’m following Greycourt to see if he’s off to meet anyone else.”
Keys nodded and limped toward the back of the building.
Gideon clapped his tricorne on and strode to the door, ducking his head as he opened it in case any of the cabal were lingering outside. But none of Greycourt’s group were in the lane. Gideon looked both ways. To the right, Hastings and Peabody were strolling away. To the left, Rookewoode and Greycourt were disappearing around the corner.
Gideon jogged left.
He came to the intersection of the lane and a wider street and checked before turning. Greycourt and Rookewoode were half a dozen paces away, mingling with the London crowd.
Gideon ducked around a porter carrying a brace of chickens hanging from the pole balanced on his back and hurried after his quarry. Another few steps and Greycourt and Rookewoode suddenly turned to cross the busy street. Gideon turned as well, only to find a cart filled with turnips directly in his path. The horses plodded past, blocking his view of both men.
Gideon ran back a few steps and crossed behind the cart.
Greycourt had disappeared.
Rookewoode was still striding up ahead, but Greycourt was nowhere in sight.
When a Rogue Meets His Match Page 24