by Lara Temple
Definitely still Cleo.
‘I have just arrived from the north.’
‘Have your affairs not gone well? Is aught wrong with your family?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen them yet.’
Her brows took wing.
‘Why not? I thought that would be your first order of business.’
My first order of business was to see you.
He didn’t say it because she was right. Once he told her the truth, going to Greybourne should be his first order of business. He had to face his demons and discover precisely what he was about to offer before he did. She deserved a home, stability...the promise of her own pack of jackals. If he could not find it inside him to offer her that, he should not offer her anything at all. She must be able to trust him and that meant he would have to trust her.
He waited for the slap of fear and it didn’t come. Of all the shifting, roiling chaos inside him, that was solid—he might not know who the Duke of Greybourne was, but he knew who Cleopatra Osbourne was and he trusted her.
‘You needn’t answer me if you don’t wish,’ she said, cutting into his thoughts and hurrying on before he could recover his wits. ‘Chris wrote to me yesterday. He has been very good at following your orders to keep an eye on me. He has even offered to review the article I am writing for the Gazette.’
‘Has he? Kind of him.’
Her brows rose slightly at his tone.
‘It is kind. He is a good man.’
His unwelcome burst of jealousy faded.
‘He is. The very best. I’ll be happy to review it, as well, if you like. What is it about?’
Her dimples finally appeared.
‘It is an account of my journey to Nubia and back. Expurgated, of course.’
‘No mention of scarred mercenaries, I hope? I prefer to operate in the shadows.’
‘You are very inconspicuous, indeed, Mr Grey. And, no, you are not featured in my article. I knew you wouldn’t appreciate the notoriety. I am writing about al-Mizan, however. I wish I knew more of him; I find myself regretting I did not speak with him after all.’
‘I find myself grateful you didn’t.’
‘I thought you liked him.’
‘I do. I appreciate sensible people.’
She smiled, but her tone was wistful. ‘I don’t think I am very sensible, not truly. If I were, I wouldn’t be talking to a man in a darkened square within sight of my employer’s window.’
‘I’ll amend that. You are part-sensible, part-impulsive, and an assemblage of several dozen other conflicting parts.’
‘Goodness. I sound like a mad aunt’s quilt.’
‘Hardly. More like one of those Dutch paintings with everything happening all at once, but at the centre there’s a joyous, steadfast core.’
It was hardly a gallant compliment, but she flushed and looked a little stunned. He had no idea where that strange thought had come from and it wasn’t until he’d spoken the words that he realised how true they were. All those conflicting parts might turn him into a confused, lustful boy, but it was that deep, calm core of hers that made his breathing ease and settle when he was with her. It was a strange feeling and he hadn’t noticed it until he’d felt its absence these past two weeks.
God, he’d missed her.
Leaves skittered along the path around them, whispering against the damp earth. Above them the trees were rustling with growing impatience.
Make a move, man! Just tell her.
He shoved his hands into his pockets, encountering the little parcel there. He fished it out and shoved it at her.
‘I brought you something. I saw it in the market in Ambleside and remembered the story you told me. It’s nothing. A jest.’
She took it with a quick glance at him and unfolded it to reveal a rolled length of blue ribbon.
‘Rafe! It is just like the one I stole from Annie Packham.’ Her voice was muted, but he could feel that welling of emotion in her she fought so hard to keep at bay. He felt absurdly accomplished that he’d found something that could do that to her. He wanted to wrap his hands around hers and cocoon that silly strip of ribbon between them.
He took a step forward.
‘Miss! Miss!’
They both turned to see a small figure bundled in a shawl and mobcap hurrying up the path.
‘That’s Betsy, Mrs Phillips’s maid,’ Cleo said with resignation just as the young woman came to a stop several paces away, eyeing Rafe warily.
‘Is this fellow bothering you, miss?’
Cleo’s dimples quivered.
‘No, Betsy. He is a friend of the family and, despite appearances, he is quite harmless.’
Betsy’s face hid none of her scepticism.
‘Mrs Phillips saw you from the window and sent me to fetch you and Percy back so you can be ready in time for the guests, miss.’
‘Thank you, Betsy.’
If Cleo’s quiet words were a hint, Betsy ignored it. She stood, arms folded, all five feet of her radiating disapproval.
‘It’s coming on to rain, miss,’ she added pointedly. It was true—the heavy clouds were succumbing once again to their weight, dropping big melancholy drops through the leaves.
Cleo sighed and looked back at Rafe.
‘I must go. I’m glad Birdie and Mrs Herndale are well.’
She hesitated and he pushed back his frustration, but there was nothing he could do.
You’re not in Egypt any longer, fool. This is London.
‘I will come by tomorrow to make a more formal entrance, Miss Osbourne. Will you be here?’
She smiled, brushed away a drop of rain that splattered on her cheek and gathered the snuffling dog in her arms.
‘Where else might I be?’
Chapter Twenty
‘Well, about time you returned to London,’ Chris said as he handed Rafe a towel. ‘And in the nick of time, too. Cesario has come on stage.’
Rafe dried his rain-soaked face and hair, but his mind was still in the windblown square, kicking him for having once again let the moment slide away. If ever he’d needed proof of his cowardice, his fear of putting his fate to the touch was conclusive evidence. It should have been the first thing out of his mouth: ‘My name isn’t Rafe Grey. It is Rafael Edgerton, Duke of Greybourne, and by the way—will you marry me?’
Well, perhaps not quite like that...
‘Are you even listening to me?’ Chris demanded. ‘I said Cesario is here.’
‘Who is where?’
‘I’ll translate. Dashford Osbourne is in London.’
That finally penetrated Rafe’s self-flagellating fog.
‘Are you certain?’
‘Benja has been keeping an eye open on new arrivals and when he heard the Nightingale was arriving from Egypt he went to watch the disembarkation and spotted him right away. He said the resemblance to Cleo was unmistakable. He followed him to the Four Bells where the boy took a room. Gave his name to the innkeeper as Thomas Mowbray.’
‘Don’t tell me. That’s the name of some Shakespearean fool.’
‘Of sorts. In the play he’s a nobleman loyal to King Richard the Second who banishes him for a crime he himself committed.’
‘Hmph. Clearly he has issues with the deceased Mr Osbourne.’
‘Fathers do appear to be a bone of contention of late.’
Rafe cast him a malevolent look.
‘Don’t tempt me to strike back, Chris.’ He tossed the towel over the back of a char. ‘Let’s go there.’
‘Unfortunately, he’s no longer there.’
‘You lost him?’
‘I didn’t know you were in London so I went there, but the room was empty. Apparently the boy used it as a decoy. Benja and the others are out searching the other inns.’
‘Come a
long, then. I want the young pup secured as soon as possible.’
‘Where will you take him? Here or your place in Lambeth?’
He hesitated.
‘I’d best take him directly to Cleo. Then...we shall see. I need to see Edge, too...’ He hesitated. ‘I’ve had my contacts keep track while I’ve been up north. Apparently he is back and he is married.’
‘What? Good Lord, when did he manage that?’
‘In Cairo, apparently. To Lady Samantha Carruthers.’
‘Lady... Isn’t that Lucas Sinclair’s sister?’
‘The same.’
‘Is that good? Bad? Horrific?’
‘It is excellent. I hope. The timeline worries me. Three years he stays in Brazil scribbling away, then in a few weeks he apparently traverses Egypt, marries Lady Samantha and returns to England. He’s being impetuous and that’s out of character. I don’t want to see him hurt.’
‘Then put him out of his misery and tell him you’re alive and well.’
‘Once we find Cleo’s brother I’ll go see him and hope he doesn’t plant me a facer. I’d hate to have to pay my visit of ceremony on Cleo tomorrow with a black eye.’
‘Your visit of...well, about time. All the more reason we should find Dash before he absconds again.’
* * *
‘Damn and blast the fool.’ Rafe stood in the middle of the Eagle and Crown’s courtyard, glaring at the shuttered windows. The room let to Mr Mowbray was as empty as the one in the Four Bells. ‘Where the devil has he gone now?’
Chris yawned and wound his scarf tighter against cold air.
‘I thought you said he was a scholar? He’s being damned cautious.’
‘He is a scholar, but he’s also Cleo’s brother. Clearly mistrust runs in the family.’
‘Well, we’ll pick up the trail tomorrow. At least we know he’s alive and on dry land. Go tell Viola. That should please her.’
He wandered off and Rafe headed in the other direction, staring at nothing as he wove through the alleys towards the main thoroughfare.
Of course he had to tell Cleo right away. Perhaps her delight would melt those careful barricades she’d mounted. Perhaps enough to... To what? She was not the type of woman who would accept a proposal because he’d produced her brother. Or a title and fortune. She would either accept him on his own merits and her own feelings or not at all...
It was the faintest of sounds, but what caught his attention was that he’d heard it before, just after leaving the Eagle and Crown.
One of the most distinctive sounds was that of a man walking with unnatural caution. The denizens of the docks bent on mischief knew better than to make such a mistake.
He paused in the centre of a crossing. There was not enough light for anyone to cast shadows and he did not bother trying to trick the fellow into revealing himself.
‘Dash Osbourne, you’re lucky Cleo is fond of you because I’m tempted to break your leg so you’ll stay put and not cause us any more headaches.’
He waited.
A figure moved out of the alley and the faint light from the tavern down the road raised a reddish glint off the man’s dark hair. Rafe felt an absurd, almost painful relief. Finally.
‘You’re the one who left the message for me in Alexandria?’ the man asked.
He even sounded like Cleo. Rafe was so tempted to grab the boy and truss him up safely before something happened.
‘Yes. What the devil are you about, setting up lodgings at half the taverns in London?’
‘I thought I noticed someone following me when I disembarked. I thought perhaps there’d been someone on the ship with me after all and I needed to be certain I was wrong before I went to look for Cleo. Then I heard you speaking with that man about me.’ He took another step closer, but there was still a good six yards between them. ‘Do you know where Cleo is?’
‘She’s companion to a Mrs Phillips at the house of Mr John Soane in Lincoln Inn Fields.’
‘Companion? Cleo?’
‘I know, it doesn’t sit well, but for the moment it serves its purpose. I will take you there now. I think under the circumstances we will be forgiven for the late hour.’ He moved forward, but the younger man stepped back, holding up his hand to stop him.
‘I shall go on my own.’
‘Cleo will have my hide if I don’t see you there safely.’
‘I’m going on my own. I’ve heard of Mr Soane and can find my way.’
‘This is ridiculous. I’ll follow you, you know.’
‘If you insist. Waste of a cab fare.’
Rafe debated actually trussing the fellow up, but though delivering him to Cleo held an appeal, delivering him bruised and hog-tied didn’t. Instead, he followed at a reasonable distance and when Dash Osbourne waved down a hackney on a busy thoroughfare, he did the same.
When his hackney stopped before the distinctive house of Mr Soane, Dash Osbourne was already on the steps. He looked back as Rafe descended from his cab and gave him a slight salute of the hand. Then the door opened and light and the sound of company poured into the cool street.
Rafe cursed beneath his breath as he paid the cabbie—he’d forgotten Soane was entertaining that evening. He stood on the other side of the road until it began to drizzle once more. England thus far wasn’t proving very welcoming and he wished once again he could somehow transport himself and Cleo back to the desert. Back to travelling with Birdie and Gamal, helping her evade Kabir’s jealous nips and talking into the night. Knowing what he knew now, he would make better use of his time with her.
He wished he could see the look on her face when Dash appeared, but he had no intention of walking into a social event. He could hardly present himself as Mr Grey to people who might already be Cleo’s friends and certainly not as the Duke of Greybourne. That was not how he wished for Cleo to discover the truth about him.
He turned westwards, walking swiftly. The frustration that had been plaguing him now for weeks was reaching fever pitch. He should be happy, delighted even. He’d brought her safely to London, found her a position, found her young fool of a brother. But he wasn’t. He didn’t know what he was any longer. He was becoming soppier than Hamlet—swinging between antic moods and melodrama. He was becoming ridiculous.
And careless.
On the docks he’d been cautious and alert, but as he headed through the drizzle on to Duke Street, his mind remained by that well-lit house on the square. When he felt the oh-so-gentle tug he acted out of instinct to disarm the pest. He couldn’t even blame the cutpurse for what happened.
As he knocked away the hand trying to separate his purse from his person, the pickpocket gave a surprised squawk, lurched backwards and slipped on the slimy cobbles. Rafe had just managed to grab the man’s coat and haul him upright when he felt the sting to his thigh.
He was acquainted with that sensation through long experience with the wrong end of a knife. He shoved the man against the wall and pinned his knife hand. It wasn’t a large knife, but sharp enough to slit a man’s purse from its strings without being noticed. The man stared wide-eyed at Rafe and then down at the darkening stain on Rafe’s trouser, visible even in the dark.
‘Gad’s truth, I didna mean to—’
‘I know, you fool. Blast it. I don’t have time for this. Go away.’
‘Ye’d best bind it...’
‘I don’t need barber’s advice from a cutpurse. What the devil were you thinking, going after someone my size?’
‘The big ones are oft the slowest...begging your pardon, sir. I didna ken you was a blooming soldier. I don’t go after swads less they’re boozy. I’m no Tyburn blossom.’
Rafe let him go, untied his neckcloth and wound it around his thigh.
‘I was in the rifles, not a redcoat, but you’ve made certain I’ve a set of red breeches now. What are you still doing h
ere? Waiting to see if I drop dead from this scratch so you can turn scavenger?’
‘’Tis more than a scratch, that is. Ye might be needing a crocus.’
Rafe gritted his teeth as he tightened the knot.
‘I don’t need a blasted surgeon. You’ve done a fine job of cupping me already. You sound like a soldier yourself.’
‘Aye, sir. Invalided at Ciudad Rodrigo, sir.’
Rafe sighed and opened his purse. The world could always be depended upon to remind one to count one’s blessings.
‘Here, take the night off from knuckling.’
‘I can’t take that, sir!’
‘Why not?’
‘Why not? I’ve pinked ’ee. T’wouldn’t be right.’
‘Don’t quibble. I deserve to pay for lowering my guard. Try not to guzzle it in one night.’
The man drew himself up. ‘I don’t indulge in spirits, sir.’
‘You’re a better man than I, then.’ Rafe tested his weight on his wounded leg. Pain slashed up and down like a dozen razors had been sown into his flesh.
There would be no visit to Sinclair House tonight. He would be lucky to reach his rooms.
‘You can earn it by finding me the closest hackney, Soldier.’
‘Fair enough. Pitch yourself at the corner there and I’ll nab one for ’ee.’
Rafe had no idea how old his attacker was, but he was undeniably swift on his feet. By the time Rafe dragged himself to the end of the road, there was a hackney waiting, the driver squinting at him suspiciously.
‘I don’t want trouble with the Watch, see?’ he growled, waving his whip, but the pickpocket merely snorted in disdain as he helped Rafe into the grimy vehicle.
‘Pipe down, Jarvis. He’s a flash swell and well equipped.’ And then to Rafe, ‘Best see a barber, anyhow, sir.’
Rafe shook his head and shoved the coin into the man’s hand and after a moment’s hesitation the pickpocket melted back into the dark. Rafe gave the hackney driver the direction of the rooms he kept for his use in London, leaned back carefully and prepared himself for a long, painful ride.
Chapter Twenty-One
