Prince of Swords

by Anne Stuart

  He’d heard almost every word with gratifying clarity. He counted excellent hearing among his many gifts, and the two Maitland sisters had made little effort to keep their voices down. After all, no one could hear them unless a cat happened to be prowling on the rooftops and stopped just above an open window.

  Unnerving. Bless the girl. He’d managed to shake her equilibrium as soundly as she’d shaken his. Of course, in her case it wasn’t much of a challenge. An untouched virgin would be easy prey for an experienced scoundrel. He frowned, remembering her words. What other men had she kissed? Whoever they were, they were far too polite and respectful. They probably had nothing but the most honorable of intentions toward her. Whereas his were nothing short of lascivious.

  She couldn’t get him out of her mind. He would have to do his best to remind her, should she have more success at dismissing his memory. She and her impoverished little family were obviously quite desperately in need of money, and he had little doubt the right offer from a respectable source could lure her into society once more. An evening performance, perhaps. She could read the cards for a few select couples, and he would stay well out of sight so as not to alarm her. And then he would be the perfect gentleman and escort her back to this dreary little hovel.

  The thought of that long carriage ride cheered him immensely, and he started back across the rooftops, silent as a cat, moving between the closely packed buildings with his usual dexterity. Down below, the streets were deceptively quiet—too much so. At that time of night even areas like Spitalfields should see some signs of life. A whore or two, perhaps a costermonger, or at least a stray four-footed cat.

  On impulse he scrambled down a roof, then dropped to the ground on silent feet. It was a back alleyway, not two streets over from the Maitlands’ abode, and it was a simple enough matter to blend with the shadows in his dark clothes. He hadn’t bothered to blacken his face, but the night was a cape to cover him as he moved through the streets like his feline counterpart.

  The lights were out in the Maitlands’ house. He stood there, looking up, wondering if the haphazard windows would provide enough of a foothold for him to climb up to Jessamine’s bedroom, when he sensed the presence of someone nearby.

  “Nice night for a walk, isn’t it?” said a man’s voice, thick, plummy, with an unmistakable London accent.

  And Alistair turned around slowly to meet Josiah Clegg’s soulless eyes.

  Seven

  Josiah Clegg didn’t appear to be that formidable a foe when observed up close. He was an ordinary-looking man, a bit vain, with a wide, thick-lipped mouth and a surprisingly pleasant smile. A warm smile, the kind to inspire confidence.

  Alistair wasn’t inspired. Nor was he particularly troubled by the appearance of a man who could be his nemesis. Apart from the interesting revelations he’d overheard beneath the Maitlands’ roof, the night had been far too uneventful.

  “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” he demanded in his passable French.

  “Odd,” said Clegg. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d be one of these damned Frenchy emigres. You don’t have the face for it.”

  “Pourguoi?” Alistair said, looking vague.

  “You don’t look British, either,” Clegg continued in a musing voice. “I’d say you were a Scot by the look of you.”

  “Je ne comprends pas,” Alistair murmured, about to run out of French phrases.

  “Most people who are out at this hour are up to no good,” Clegg went on, gazing at him thoughtfully. Including you, Alistair thought. “I wouldn’t be doing my duty if I didn’t make certain you were on the up-and-up. Hold out your hands.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Your hands, man!” Clegg said impatiently, thrusting his own hands out in demonstration. They were thick, hamlike hands, the nails lined with filth.

  Alistair immediately offered his hands. They were equally grimy from his sojourn over the rooftops, grimy enough to disguise his lack of calluses in the darkness of the night.

  “You’re not a weaver,” Clegg said, more to himself. “You haven’t got the hands for it. What do you do, live off your womenfolk?” The notion seemed to amuse him.

  “Je suis un Voleur,” Alistair murmured sweetly. “Je suis le Chat.”

  “Voleur, eh? What the hell is that?” Clegg demanded. “Let me give you a warning, my friend. This is my territory. Clegg’s, you understand? If you haven’t heard of me by now, you should have. I’m a dangerous man. You have any interesting little sidelines, then you pay me to let you be. If you don’t, you get hauled in before the Justice, and he doesn’t like Frenchies any more than he likes criminals. I’m a little more broad-minded, if you get my drift. I’m willing to look the other way this time.” His thick London accent was deceptively affable. “That is, if you’ll tell me what you were doing sniffing around that house back there. I have a personal interest in the young lady there. You think you’re going to crawl between her legs and you’ll find you don’t have anything to put there. You’ve a pretty face and she probably likes it well enough, but I’ve got her staked out for me. You understand?”

  Alistair looked at him blankly, seething.

  “Half-wit,” Clegg said to himself. “Just keep away from them. You understand that much, don’t you? I need to keep the older sister on my side for the time being, but when I’m through with her, I’m going after the young one. And I won’t take kindly to anyone who’s been there ahead of me.”

  “Batard,” Alistair murmured politely, backing away from him.

  “Yeah, batard to you too,” Clegg muttered, dismissing him. “Just remember she’s mine, Frenchy.”

  Alistair had never killed a man. He knew how to use pistols and a sword, he’d even fought the requisite number of polite duels. Usually he preferred to use his wits and his cunning, not brute force. But looking at Clegg, he found himself filled with a sudden longing to smash the man’s teeth down his throat.

  “Get out of here,” Clegg said irritably. “Your idiot face is beginning to annoy me.”

  “Baisez mon cul,” he said, bowing low. And before Clegg could decide to come closer, he disappeared into the shadows of the dark London night.

  “But, my dear Jessamine, I had no idea you possessed such talents! You’ve been hiding your light under a bushel.”

  Jessamine stared at Miss Ermintrude Winters’s pale, puglike face with ill-concealed dismay. She would have been much happier if she had been able to hide her entire self under a bushel. At least Mama was still abed, suffering from the megrims and a surfeit of ratafia, and wasn’t there to witness the reentry of one of Jessamine’s childhood acquaintances into their lives.

  Ermintrude had never been more than that. She had always been an unpleasant child, holding herself aloof from the ramshackle Maitlands. Mr. Maitland’s descent into poverty and death had set the seal on her disapproval, and the last time Jessamine had crossed her path, Ermintrude had given her the cut direct.

  Not today, however. Ermintrude was all fat smiles and oozing charm, murmuring remembrances of a shared past which, in truth, they hadn’t shared at all. To be sure, they had both attended the Christmas routs at Lady Andrews’s estate. But Ermintrude had been with her group, Jessamine with hers.

  “They say you have an extraordinary gift,” Ermintrude continued. “I can’t say that I’m surprised. You always seemed a bit different from the rest of us. It must be those lovely eyes.”

  Jessamine kept a pleasant expression on her face as she listened to these bald-faced lies. Ermintrude must have learned tact during the last few years. She had always made cutting comments about Jessamine’s witch’s eyes.

  Jessamine herself wasn’t feeling particularly diplomatic. “Who says I have an extraordinary gift?”

  Ermintrude blinked. “Why, everyone. Everyone that matters, that is. You’re quite the on-dit of society. Everyone wants you at their parties, everyone is dying to know more about you.”

  “Including you?” Jessamine said coolly.

  Erm
intrude may have learned tact, but sensitivity still eluded her. “I thought you might like to come to a small house-party my married sister is holding out in Kent. I’m certain you remember Sally—she married Mr. Blaine, who was quite a catch, as I’m sure you realize. There will be just a dozen or so guests, and it should all be quite gay. I imagine it’s been quite a while since you’ve been in the country. You were always such a charmingly rural soul.”

  “Quite a while,” Jessamine echoed. “But I’m afraid I must decline your so-charming invitation. My mother isn’t at all well, and I couldn’t leave my sister without adequate protection.”

  “Surely the servants could look after your mother,” Ermintrude protested, patently ignoring the fact that she had seen no sign of servants during her damnably long visit that afternoon. “And you could bring your little sister with you. I remember her well—such a pretty child. I’m certain we’ll find other children to entertain her.”

  Jessamine looked at her childhood nemesis. “Let us be frank, Ermintrude. You are not inviting me to your sister’s house party for the pleasure of my company. You wish me to entertain the guests with parlor tricks, do you not? Reading their cards, telling their fortunes?”

  “It’s no less than you have done for Lady Plumworthy, if rumor can be relied upon.”

  “Let me give you a little hint, Ermintrude. Never believe rumors. How I choose to use my talents and for what rewards is simply none of your business.”

  “My sister said I was to offer you fifty pounds.”

  Jessamine didn’t even blink. Ermintrude’s sister Sally had married a nabob, and she’d obviously lost track of things she could spend her money on. Fifty pounds was a very great deal of money. Almost tempting.

  “I’m sorry,” Jessamine said. “I have my reputation to consider. As well as my sister’s.”

  “One hundred pounds, and you and your sister shall be honored guests,” Ermintrude said hastily.

  “I doubt your other guests will view us as such.”

  “Don’t be so starchy, Jessamine,” Ermintrude said in an irritable voice that sounded much more natural than her forced amiability. “Your lineage is impeccable, even if your father was a wastrel. Lack of money, while to be deplored, shouldn’t put you beyond the pale. Besides, there will be any number of eligible partis. You’re a great deal older than I am, but you’re not necessarily at your last prayers. If you were lucky, you could manage to attract a gentleman of independent means and secure your future. Perhaps an elderly widower.”

  Ermintrude was exactly two months younger than Jessamine’s twenty-three years, but Jess was tactful enough not to mention that fact. The offer, fraught as it was with disaster, held too many possibilities to be dismissed out of hand. At the rate she was going, it would be another year before Fleur could make her debut. A year of living on the edge of squalor, a year of isolation and potential danger. A year where anything could happen, where temptation would be fatal. She needed to make her escape, to settle her family and then fade into graceful retirement, away from Clegg, away from the city. Far away from the disturbing Earl of Glenshiel.

  “What do you say?” Ermintrude persisted.

  Jessamine closed her eyes for a moment, letting her mind run free, open, seeking. The card that formed in front of her mind’s eye was immediate and gratifying. The Nine of Cups. It would be well.

  She opened her eyes to survey her erstwhile acquaintance’s avid face. “Fleur and I will accept your gracious invitation,” she said smoothly. “It’s been too long since we’ve had the pleasure of a house party in the country. And we will be more than happy to add what small entertainment we can offer. Fleur has quite a gift with her paints, and I have no aversion to a playful reading of the cards to while away the time.”

  “A wise choice,” Ermintrude said. “My sister’s banker will draw you a draft on her account—”

  “No,” Jessamine said. “We will come only if this is a social invitation, between friends, and not a financial transaction.”

  “You don’t receive money for what you do?” Ermintrude asked bluntly.

  To admit that she did would put her on the level of dressmakers and shopkeepers. To lie would be even worse. “I do what I deem necessary, Ermintrude,” she said sweetly. “Your companionship and hospitality will be ample reward.”

  Ermintrude looked as if she’d rather be a companion to a snake, but she pursed her plump lips into a sour smile. “I imagine you’ll need transportation. My sister would be more than happy to send her carriage for you on Wednesday next....”

  “That would be lovely.”

  Ermintrude glanced down at Jessamine’s plain, outmoded dress. “I trust you’ll be better dressed?”

  Typical of Ermintrude, Jessamine thought wearily. Once she’d gotten her way, her overbearing nature came forth. In response she simply smiled. “I’m looking forward to the house party, Ermy.”

  Ermintrude hated being called Ermy. Particularly since her obnoxious boy cousins had always referred to her as Ermy-Wormy. Up until then Jessamine had resisted the impulse to use the nickname, but there was something in Ermintrude’s smug blue eyes that brought out the worst in her.

  Ermintrude rose majestically. “And you needn’t worry about highwaymen and the like. My sister has made special arrangements for the Bow Street runners to provide protection. The Cat himself wouldn’t dare make an appearance!”

  “The Cat?” Jess echoed with perfect innocence.

  “Oh, that’s right, you’ve been out of society for so long, you probably haven’t even heard of him. He’s a most daring and remorseless thief. He steals his way into the finest houses in the city and relieves the owners of their jewels. Sometimes he commits his wicked deeds when the houses are deserted, sometimes he has the effrontery to rob when the house is ablaze with a party. No one quite knows how he does it. He’s as sneaky and silent as a cat.” Ermintrude’s small eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion. “I thought you were at Lady Plumworthy’s when one such a robbery occurred?” she said sharply.

  “Perhaps I was. No one bothered to inform me of it,” she lied blithely.

  “I should think not. It could hardly be your concern,” Ermintrude said with a sniff. She rose and bestowed a gracious kiss on the unwilling Jessamine. “If there’s a problem with your wardrobe, let me know and I’ll see if I can contrive something. I wouldn’t want you to shame my sister.”

  Jessamine stumbled, treading sharply on Ermintrude’s instep, then fell back. “I beg your pardon, Ermy,” she said with breathless innocence. “I am so clumsy on occasion.”

  Ermintrude allowed herself the luxury of a glare. “Till next week.”

  Jessamine nodded and proceeded to accompany Miss Winters to the door. “I can’t imagine where the servants could have gone to,” she said vaguely.

  Ermintrude cast a suspicious look around the place. If she suspected the impoverished Maitlands couldn’t afford so much as a daily maid, her horror would be complete, and the social offer might be rescinded.

  Ermintrude’s carriage waited outside the Maitlands’ front door, the liveried coachman guarding it from the curious denizens of Spitalfields. Jessamine stood in the open doorway until it pulled away, then slowly shut the door and leaned against it.

  She had probably made a very grave mistake. Her plans were well and carefully made: once she amassed a certain amount of money from her work with the despised Clegg, she could afford to move to better quarters and manage a small, discreet launch into society for her beloved Fleur. Once she contracted a reasonable marriage, the future would be assured. Jessamine had learned to make do on very little indeed. Fleur didn’t need to attract a Croesus—any decently landed gentleman with a kind soul would do.

  But this was dangerous indeed. There was no guarantee that any eligible parti would be present at Sally Blaine’s house party, and if the Maitland sisters appeared and then disappeared, questions would be asked.

  She would have to take some of the carefully hoarded money a
nd make new clothes for Fleur, not to mention something decent and discreet for herself. Her mother still had her extensive wardrobe, however, and there might very well be gowns that could be modified, modernized, cut down to fit Jessamine’s slighter figure.

  It would also make her identity clear. The Gypsy fortuneteller would be unmasked, and certain sticklers might not approve of such a creature for a sister-in-law.

  Still, it was a risk she had to take. Josiah Clegg was beginning to frighten her. She’d always been uneasy around him, though she’d lessened her misgivings by assuring herself she was helping the almost lost cause of law and order in the wretched streets of London.

  But lately she could no longer believe that, or believe that Clegg cared one whit for justice. He wanted his thief-taker’s share, and it didn’t matter to him if it came from the neck of a hardened criminal or an innocent child.

  She could help him this one last time. She could enable him to ensnare the notorious Cat, and then she could call it quits. A criminal of such daring would doubtless be worth a generous portion. She could even eschew her own share of it if Clegg would relinquish his hold on her.

  It seemed reasonable enough, and yet she knew it wasn’t. The answer lay in her cards, and she was afraid to read them. Afraid to ask the questions that would place her in an impossible situation.

  The Cat was the least of her worries, she reminded herself firmly. The elegant Earl of Glenshiel was similarly only a troubling distraction. With any luck he had already forgotten her very existence, and if she just managed to avoid crossing paths with him, she would be fine.

  It was her family that worried her. She needed to get Fleur safely and wealthily wed to a decent man who’d accept his responsibilities, including a difficult mother-in-law.

  And then Jessamine would be safe. The house party, despite its dangers, could provide the start of a new, more acceptable life for all of them. It was a chance she had to take. And even if it all came to naught, and they came away from the house party further impoverished with their reputations questionable, she couldn’t regret the chance to get out of the stink and filth of London.