by Gina Conkle
“When do we steal the gold?” he asked.
“There will be an evening entertainment, two hundred people or so, attending an art salon about a week from today.”
“You want to take the gold with that many people around?”
“It is the perfect time. The more in attendance, the better.” His cousin regarded him with cynical eyes. “It is the law of social events. The bigger the crowd, the more they preen and posture. Especially in London.”
Could her drawl have been any more dramatic?
“Everyone will be so concerned with how they look and what they think everyone is thinking about them that they won’t notice what’s right under their noses,” the elder Miss Fletcher said.
“Aunt Flora will be in the kitchens, and Aunt Maude will be an attending maid in the ground floor retiring room. A signal will be given, and that’s when you and I shall go to the study, unlock the cabinet, and pass the gold to Mary and Margaret through the window here—” Anne tapped the paper “—where they will be waiting with a cart.”
“That particular window is at the side of the house but near the mews,” Miss Fletcher added. “We should escape notice.”
He scrubbed a hand across his mouth. “It doesna matter how fine the clothes I wear, I’m no’ a mon for such events.”
“You are exactly the man we want.”
Something in Anne’s gentle voice and demure lashes gave him pause. Anne had never been demure. Why the sudden show now?
“You will be fine,” his cousin assured him. “Wine and champagne will flow. And not all in attendance will be the genteel sort. The guest list includes artists and the women they paint in the nude. Those paintings, among others, will be on display.”
Miss Fletcher’s lip pressed with mild disapproval. “It will not be an evening for overfine manners.”
He was slow to tear his attention from Anne’s staunch profile. The tiny hairs on his nape were twitching. Blasted woman. She was hiding something.
“Where is this house anyway?”
He snatched the foolscap and studied it. Heat began to coat his skin, the pained rush of embarrassment combined with a strong desire for the ground to swallow him whole. Upper Brook Street buttressed a grand house facing a familiar garden square. The address written at the bottom scalded him: Grosvenor Square.
Silence pounded his ears. His past was in the bile creeping up his throat. Outside, a driver yelled at a team of horses clip-clopping along Bermondsey Lane, but inside the salon no one made a sound. He rose from the chair, his limbs sturdy despite the quake within.
He loomed over Anne and held up the paper, his fingertips bloodless and his voice dangerously mild. “Who has the gold?”
“The Countess of Denton.”
The beast inside him raked vicious claws the length of his soul and laughed.
Chapter Six
Will’s gaze distilled the air to its simplest form. Breathing hurt. She touched fingertips to the table for balance. The need for Jacobite treasure shimmered blindingly, but she’d just asked Will to pay a hefty price by returning to his shame.
To the woman who’d kept him like a favorite possession.
It had been an honest contract with Lady Denton. That much she knew, and while certain men reveled in the role, Will had not. At present, he burned with shame and ire, twin flames threatening to scorch her. Everyone in the league had sacrificed in one way or another, but his past was the currency they needed most.
Will set the paper on the table with heart-aching carefulness and stalked across the room. Male pride evened his shoulders, a majestic form at the window. Thank God the glass stopped him. At his nape, his queue’s black silk ribbon taunted her.
Promises made, promises broken. Their legacy.
She clutched her stomacher. Behind tasteful embroidery, pain twisted and pressed as if someone had drawn back their booted foot and kicked her.
Her eyes stung. She’d hurt Will again.
“Ladies, please give us a moment.”
In her side vision, fluent glances spread around the table. Chairs scraped and the women exited in respectful silence, their footsteps a hushed clutter until the salon doors squeaked shut.
Will’s dignity was on the altar.
The Countess of Denton collected braw men the way others collected soft-paste porcelain figurines, though her tastes ran afoul of her class. Former soldiers, thief takers, the odd dockside brute. Gruff men hungry for coin and a warm bed, men good in a fight. If an attractive woman from Society’s higher places came with the offer, it was fine by them. Her private footman. That’s what the countess called the man who attended her, though no livery was worn. And her ladyship never kept a man beyond six months.
She’d kept Will for a year.
Their arrangement was no mystery; how it began and ended was.
What happened?
Anne rubbed her nape, the knot in her back palpable, the tension growing. If she wasn’t careful, she’d be a hunchback, worn out and old before her time, and at the moment, time was not her friend. Daylight waned in the glass framing Will. The gloaming hour would soon come.
A well-executed crime required precision and confidence in one’s partners.
Was he in? Or out?
“Will,” she called as gently as she could.
Not a twitch.
“Will.” She was louder this time, and he, a statue.
Head high, his stance brittle, she feared he’d break. A ridiculous notion for a man like Will. He’d always been mighty. Nothing could crack him, not a lost war, nor imprisonment. Still, she sped across the room only to stop short, skirts swinging, her heart in her throat when Will spun around with a glare to cut stone.
“You played me falsely, madame.”
“No,” she cried. The pounding in her chest cleaved fact from fiction. There might be some truth to his words.
“Aunt Flora’s presence was a masterful move.”
Did he not understand? Her feet itched to move, but she dared not go any closer. “Aunt Flora is not a chess piece.”
Will scoffed. The brooding beast gone, Hades had taken his place, an angry deity framed by red serge drapes and late day London skies. Gray, gray, and more dismal gray while he flared brilliantly. The god of the underworld looked ready to smite her, but she’d not retreat, regroup, or reassess. The moment was upon her to carve a path forward. She’d seize it.
“Everything you’ve heard, the herds in need of replenishment, the Clanranald men unjustly taken, our kin desperate for safe passage to the colonies . . . it’s all true.”
“With certain details conveniently left out.”
He advanced on her, slow and menacing, but she stood her ground, a chill camping on the knot in her back. Wonderful. More discomfort. She deserved his ire, but she would not cower. Necessity was a harsh taskmaster. One learned quickly or was trampled by London’s barbarians, and London bred the best of them. Silk-clad, bejeweled barbarians were particularly cruel. The skirted ones, the worst. They played fast with the law and hid behind privilege and petticoats after dealing vicious blows. Will never functioned that way. He was honest, loyal to a fault, and he fought face-to-face just as he’d told her abovestairs. Skulking in shadows and trickery were cowardly to a man of his high standards. It’s why he fought the rebellion openly.
When he stopped a half pace from her, she wished he wasn’t so forthright.
It hurt to be this close to his proud, beautiful face. The angles sharp, his skin smooth. The severe line of his mouth told her how great the divide between them. She’d do well to start bridging it.
“I tried to tell you in the shed—”
“You didna try hard enough.” Arms crossed, Hades was in no mood to listen.
“—and then you followed me home.”
Muscles tensed under wrinkled velvet pulled tight over shoulders and arms. Will needed that reminder. His flinty eyes burned a tad less bright for it. The two of them trod a careful line of thrust and parry, of arg
ument and persuasion. All the same, she’d touched a nerve and wanted to soothe it. The irritating desire to smooth every inch of ruined velvet lingered too. She buried both hands in her skirts to resist the urge.
“You may recall, I spent considerable effort last night convincing you the Jacobite gold is real. And when I saw how exhausted you were, I thought sleep the better thing.”
Will’s eyes were topaz chips. “Do not maneuver me, madame.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. We are equals.” An economy of words usually worked with Will. Direct, plain. When they didn’t suffice, she reminded him in patient tones, “And I already agreed to your . . . payment.”
His visage was stony.
“There is that.”
Silence was a gift, a blessed moment to reassemble.
“Then, you understand,” she said quietly. “You are not the only one uncomfortable here.”
Will stalked to the fireplace, and she exhaled air she didn’t know she was holding. A gate had been opened. Wasn’t that how progress worked? A little give, a little take. She was sure more giving on her part would be required. Much more giving.
“I know why you came to me after all these years,” he said.
She stilled. “You do?”
“Because I know where Ancilla keeps the Wilkes Lock key.”
She squeezed her eyes shut a split second. Hearing the countess’s Christian name set her teeth on edge. “It’s in her study,” she said. “I had planned to search for it if you wouldn’t help us.”
“She keeps the key in a hollowed-out book. You’d be old and gray afore you ever found it.”
“A book.” There were hundreds of them in the woman’s study, thousands more in her library.
“But you don’t know which one Ancilla uses.” Will swung around, his smile pure satisfaction. “Which means you need me. Quite a lot, in fact.”
“We need each other.” Walking toward him, she enunciated each word, adding a surly, “And would you please address the woman properly? Despite her being a heinous gargoyle.”
“A gargoyle?” he chuckled, and she swatted the air.
“Ignore that.”
Of course, he wouldn’t. Will rested an elbow on the mantel, a cocky smile wreathing his face. Her vision narrowed on him. Hades is gloating. It had a maddening effect because she did need him, and Will, full of swagger, was dangerous fun, a glimmer of the man she once knew.
“There’s the matter of getting into her home,” he said. “The countess is no’ going to welcome me with open arms.”
She cocked her head. What an interesting morsel of information. Her ladyship and Will at odds? She’d save that for consumption later.
“The countess is presently in the countryside, hunting grouse and not expected to return to London until the day before hosting her art salon.”
“I recall . . .” he said vaguely rubbing his chin. “She likes the hunt.”
For treasure and men. Especially if that treasure doesn’t belong to her. Hands folded neatly, she tamped down her ire. Will was not a commodity to fight over, especially with that woman from his past. Facing him, Anne acknowledged another disconcerting truth: she belonged to his past too.
Three sharp knocks and the salon door flew open. Cecelia bustled in, a gray cloak in hand.
“Anne, we must go.” Pensive eyes sought the darkening window. “We’re late.”
Will stepped away from the mantel. “You havena told me how I’m getting inside the house.”
“I will tomorrow morning.”
Cecelia handed over the cloak. “He could meet us tonight.”
Oh, Cecelia. She almost groaned aloud.
Cecelia flashed a mischievous grin. “It makes perfect sense.”
Will and her at a public house? Horrifying. They’d have to converse. Socially.
“Tonight is business,” she said.
“Every night is business with you, Anne. I worry about you. You need some fun.” To Will, “We shall be at the White Lamb on Crown Alley. Do you know it?”
“Do I know it? It’s a den of thieves and cutthroats!”
“Indeed, it is.” Cecelia winked at him and fairly danced her way out of the room, a flurry of white petticoats.
Anne tossed the cloak over her shoulders. People depended on her. Of course, duty to the clan came first. She’d not apologize for it.
“The idea has some merit. You could meet Mr. Horatio Styles.”
Will’s brow puzzled.
“Our means of entry to Lady Denton’s home tomorrow,” she said, looping the frogs under her chin. “Meeting him might make you feel better about working with me.”
“Me going with you now. That would make me feel better.”
Will’s moody glower softened her. She itched to brush clean the tension framing his mouth. A man worrying over her was adorable, though Will would chafe at being told as much. She could tell him their clan chief hadn’t fretted over her since the ’45. Neither had her father, or her brothers, bless their clodhopper souls. She’d grown used to her strength and independence for seven years and counting; change was impossible.
“At the moment, Aunt Flora is laboring in the kitchen to make sure you’re well fed. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble obliging her, and the Fletcher sisters need you here.” Her gaze led his to the sea chest. “Some alterations will be necessary.”
“I don’t like it.” His voice was a deep, protective rumble.
“I shall be fine. Your cousin will be with me.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?” he scoffed. “My cousin thinks the White Lamb is an adventure.”
Something akin to delight flickered inside her, a treacherous little flame that needed watching. Will wasn’t trying to stop her. She was more than capable of taking care of herself. Will grasped that. Even better—and this was the alarming part—was how he handled her authority. He was fierce but respectful. Will didn’t swoop into the league, the proverbial male taking over and showing the females (the lesser sex, of course!) how things should be done. She had a keen mind, and Will didn’t try to stop her from using it.
A dangerous flame, indeed.
“We’ll be safe, I assure you.” She tempted fate by rubbing a threadbare spot on his sleeve. “We need you looking the part of a merchant on the rise.”
Will’s big hand folded over hers, his warmth seeping into her skin. She shivered nicely when he leaned in and his lips grazed her ear.
“No, lass. You need me looking like your betrothed.”
Chapter Seven
Moorfields was the common man’s pleasure garden, where good and evil met. Open-air markets and traveling shows, criminals and Methodists all mingled as one. Ha’pennies flooded the torchlit green, passing from one grubby hand to the next. So many, Will crossed trampled grass, tasting copper’s dirty tang.
The dance of vice and virtue. The night was rife with it.
A bored fortune-teller shuffled cards inside her open tent. Yawning players in patched clothes traipsed a makeshift stage. The drunk and aimless gathered and they weren’t particular about their entertainment. Anything would do; in its absence trouble brewed. West End nobs knew this. The idle poor rioted.
Keep them numb, Ancilla would say from the comfort of her gilt-trimmed carriage.
He’d watched and learned in those days. The Countess of Denton was older, smarter, and accomplished, a beauty to seize a man's breath. Or his ballocks. Sometimes the countess took both. She’d taken in a young forgotten foot soldier, a wild highlander and molded him. A quiet hulking man who read more and pondered things took his place.
One lesson in particular stuck: survival was primal, and it often came well dressed.
Him wading through Middle Moorfields was about another confounding woman, and he’d traveled a long distance these years to find her. She had something he wanted. Tonight, he’d get it. But the crossing was gritty, a dogged journey that began on a doorstep in Edinburgh and landed him here, in Crown Alley.
/> Tall, dark, and bricked, the alley was busy. Men hanging candle lamps to ward off night, boys roping barrels. A pipe-smoking, thrum-capped sailor slouched beside the alley’s lone door. Music and laughter swelled behind it.
“Ye here for the weddin’ feast?” the old man asked. “Or the bare-knuckle brawlers?”
Will stepped back and checked the tavern’s sign. Faded letters spelled White Lamb, but an impudent soul had recently painted a lush, red-lipped smirk on the wee animal.
“Neither. I’m meeting a woman.”
The seaman let loose a salty laugh. “It’s all the same, lad.”
He eyed the door. The latch was rattling as if straining to hold a raucous tide of merriment.
“It starts like whot’s in there—” the sailor pointed at the tavern “—and ends like that.” He jabbed a thumb at the roped-off ring. “If yer lucky, she’ll give ye a kiss and a tup—” he opened the door with a flourish “—no leg shackle required.”
Will tipped at waves of noise, color, and the scent of women washing him. Deep within a fiddle sawed a rustic tune. Feet were stomping. Hands were clapping. Breasts were heaving, plump and ripe for the picking. Pale and dark skinned, the public house welcomed all comers. Sirens, all of them. Their eyes sparkled with invitation: Sex is here.
He stepped inside, a carnal current vibrating from the floor up his legs.
A leg shackle never looked so desirable.
He didn’t bother to bite back a grin of male appreciation. Women were everywhere. On the stairs and above them, crowding the railing, flirting with crane-necked men below. Silk petticoats mashed between balusters, skirts too fine for this establishment. Somewhere a tallyman had made a year’s worth of coin renting gowns to the women here tonight. Those skirts were meant to be seen—and lifted. Tamer crowds milled the room’s perimeter, pints in hand without a table in sight. The center was for dancing—if that’s what one called the melee of bodies. Men tossed up women and twirled them close. Partners passed in messy lines. Torsos rubbed and necks arched to receive a carnal kiss.
