Nowhere Near Respectable

by Mary Jo Putney

As Kirkland poured a rather good claret for the others at the table, he asked, “Does anyone have anything to report?”

  Cassie said, “Rob and I have heard a few whispers among the émigré community that something is in the wind, but nothing concrete. There is talk of Clement’s mysterious disappearance, but no one has suggested that they knew about his spying.”

  “So none of them are likely to show up with a writ of habeas corpus and demand Clement’s release since he’s being held without being charged.” Kirkland shook his head. “I’m not doing well by English jurisprudence.”

  “Don’t worry about it too much,” Carmichael advised. “Clement must know that if he was charged, it would be with a capital crime and his future would be very short.”

  “There is that.” Kirkland frowned. “I hope he can bring himself to give more information. I would rather not see the fellow hanged.”

  Kiri sipped her wine. “In other news, I had tea with Princess Charlotte today.”

  That caught Kirkland’s full attention. “She’s supposed to be in Windsor!”

  “She’s moving there tomorrow and wanted to thank me for my help at Damian’s.” Kiri explained. “I took her a bottle of perfume, and she told me that she planned to attend the opening of Parliament in two weeks.”

  Kirkland swore under his breath with a vehemence that startled Mac. The other man was known for his even temper, especially in front of two ladies.

  Mac said, “From your reaction, it sounds like her attendance could be even more dangerous than I thought.”

  Kirkland pushed back in his chair, looking weary. “Clement’s spy conscience still doesn’t allow him to name names, but he doesn’t approve of assassinating members of the royal family. The one piece of information he gave today was advising that we be very watchful for the safety of the royals who attend the opening of Parliament.”

  Cassie frowned. “I wonder if the conspirators are planning to set off an explosion in the Palace of Westminster. Barrels of gunpowder like Guy Fawkes stashed under the House of Lords?”

  “You can be sure that the building will be searched from top to bottom and in every closet and cranny,” Kirkland said. “But individual assassins could easily get close to the carriages of the royals, or even enter the building.”

  “We’re all worried most about Princess Charlotte,” Cassie said slowly. “What if Kiri is one of her attendants? It wouldn’t be surprising to include the daughter of a duke, and she’ll be an extra line of defense if necessary.”

  Mac tensed. “If there’s trouble, she’ll be right in the line of fire. Ashton wouldn’t like that.” Nor would Mac.

  “That’s what I’m here for.” Kiri gave him a steady gaze. “There’s not likely to be much risk.”

  “It could be dangerous,” Kirkland said bluntly. “This afternoon, someone tried to shoot the Duke of York as he was leaving Horse Guards. Luckily it was a long-distance shot and missed him.”

  Silence fell over the room. The Duke of York, next brother in age to the prince regent, was in line for the throne after Charlotte. “So the conspiracy is still attempting to kill off royals,” Carmichael said. “I rather hoped that what we’ve done already would be enough to drive them underground like rats in the sewer.”

  “Unfortunately, no.” Kirkland’s face looked carved from granite. “We need to find the plotters and do it without setting off a public panic.”

  “In that case,” Mac said as he opened another bottle of claret and topped up all their glasses, “we need to drink to our success.”

  He thought that his frivolity might cause Kirkland to throw the wine over Mac’s unworthy self. Then his friend relaxed and raised his glass. “To success.”

  They clinked their glasses together, then drank. As Mac swallowed the claret, he tried not to think of the gladiators’ salute to the Emperor Claudius: Ave, Caesar, morituri te salutamus.

  We who are about to die salute you.

  Chapter 30

  Major William Lord Masterson got the news when he was in Oporto, Portugal, visiting his old school friend Justin Ballard. With the army in winter quarters, Will had decided to go home for a few months. Partly on general principles, but also from a gnawing sense of uneasiness. Soldier’s intuition, and not best ignored.

  Having arrived late the night before at Ballard’s home, he slept heavily and entered the breakfast room the next morning with a yawn. Ignoring the food, he crossed to look out the window at the shining path of the Douro River below. “I like your new house, Justin. Last night was too dark to appreciate the view.”

  “Plus, you were so tired you were reeling.” Ballard poured a mug of hot, strong coffee, added cream and sugar, and handed it to Will. “I’m glad you stopped by for a few days before heading home.”

  Will took the mug and swallowed a long, scalding mouthful, feeling more relaxed than he had in months. “I’d be a fool to head back to November weather in England when I can visit a man who makes the best port in Portugal.”

  Ballard laughed. “I can’t swear that it’s the best, but you can drink all you like for free. The port-making business is in disarray after all the fighting, but give me time.”

  Will transferred his gaze from the river, which bustled with small boats, to his friend. Dark-haired, part Portuguese, and completely bilingual, Ballard could easily pass as a native. “Do you think you’ll ever move back to England?”

  “Of course. All that fog and greenery are in the blood. But I love Portugal, too.” Ballard sipped his coffee. “Every man would be improved by living for at least a year in another country.”

  “Especially if he can do it without being shot at,” Will said dryly. “I have the feeling that I haven’t experienced the best of Portugal and Spain.”

  “You’ll have to come for a long stay when peace finally arrives.” Ballard moved away from the window. “Have some breakfast. The eggs are scrambled with onion and chorizo sausage, and they make a good start to the day. Plus, I have some London newspapers fresh off the boat and not much more than a week old.”

  “The packet must have caught a good wind.” Will helped himself to a double serving of eggs and two slices of fresh baked bread. Then he settled at the table opposite Ballard, poured himself more coffee, and took the London paper on the top of the stack that had just been delivered. A nice thing about visiting with old friends was that no conversation was required.

  He leafed through the pages idly, reading articles that caught his attention. Then he hit the obituary section, and stopped. A chill went through him.

  He must have made a sound, because Ballard’s head snapped up from his own newspaper. “Something wrong?”

  “It appears that my brother is dead.” Will took a deep breath, trying to wrap his head around the idea that the irrepressible Mackenzie was gone. “According to this, he tried to stop a burglary at his club and was shot.”

  Ballard took the paper and read through the piece, his expression shocked. “It’s hard to believe. Mackenzie always seemed indestructible.”

  “Maybe the report isn’t true,” Will said, not wanting to believe. “He worked with Kirkland, and that often means things are not as they appear.”

  “Maybe,” Ballard said quietly. “But . . . the odds are against that.”

  “I know.” Will got to this feet, appetite gone. “I’ll take the next boat home rather than lingering.”

  “There’s a packet returning to London this afternoon.” Ballard also stood. “I’ll send my secretary to see if there’s a cabin available.”

  “I’ll sleep on the deck if necessary, but I will be on that boat,” Will said tersely.

  “The deck in November? Not a wise idea. You’re an officer, a gentleman, and a baron of England. They should be able to do better than the deck for you.” Ballard laid his hand briefly on Will’s shoulder before leaving to dispatch his secretary.

  Will looked through the other newspapers but didn’t find any articles with more details. Damian Mackenzie. Dead in a
n alley outside his club. He couldn’t bring the mental image into focus.

  Instead, he remembered Mac as a small boy when they’d first met. His mother just dead, now tossed among strangers, Mac had been terrified and determined not to show it.

  Their mutual father had been away, and the servants hadn’t known what to do about this strange boy who had been sent by his late mother’s maid. The maid herself had vanished, but she’d paid Mac’s coach fare to his father’s house, with papers that verified his identity.

  The butler had been all for shipping the cuckoo in the nest off to the nearest workhouse, but Will had refused to allow that. He was usually an easygoing child, good-natured and cooperative, but on that day he’d discovered his latent aristocrat arrogance. The steward said Will couldn’t just adopt a strange boy like a pet, but he’d done exactly that.

  He’d always wanted a brother, or even a sister, but no such luck. Then this brother miraculously appeared, looking too much like Will not to be family.

  Mac’s defiance had crumbled easily. All it had taken was for Will to be nice to him. He’d taken his new little brother up to the nursery, introduced him to his nurse, and given him some of his toys. By the time Lord Masterson had returned, Mac was part of the household, and Will made it very clear that he would not allow his brother to be shipped off to some uncertain future.

  Lord Masterson, like Will, didn’t like unpleasantness. He also felt some responsibility for his bastard son, so Mac stayed on, treated almost like a legitimate son of the house. Almost, but not quite. Only Will accepted him completely, as if his bastardy hadn’t mattered.

  It was why they’d both ended up at the Westerfield Academy. Lord Masterson had given up trying to separate the boys, but he didn’t want to send his bastard to Eton. So Will had gone off to Lady Agnes and Mac had boarded with a vicar in Westerfield village. The vicar had tutored Mac until his erratic education was up to Lady Agnes’s standards, and then he’d joined the school in a class behind Will.

  After leaving Westerfield, they’d stayed close despite the distances that often separated them. Mac had gone into the army. Will had wanted to do that, but as the heir, he really couldn’t. When tragedy had set Will free from life in England, it had been his turn to go into the army, and Mac’s turn to come home.

  But they’d written each other. Over the years, there had been masses of letters. Mac’s were witty and often wickedly funny.

  Will knew his letters were less interesting. Well, Will himself was less interesting. But the letters had kept their bond alive. If one of them was going to die, Will was the likely candidate since he was an active officer in wartime. But no, he’d survived years of warfare with no major wounds and only one serious bout with fever.

  Mac should have been safe. If there was any justice in the world, his humor and zest for life should have made him immortal.

  After so many years as a soldier, one would think that Will would be less of an optimist.

  He wasn’t sure how long he stared down at the silver surface of the Douro River, but his reverie ended when Ballard returned. “You have a cabin in the packet that leaves in three hours,” his friend said. “It’s small and you’re sharing it with a large wine merchant, but he owes me a favor, so he agreed. It’s going to be so tight that you’ll have to take turns breathing.”

  “We’ll manage. Thanks, Justin.” Will smiled crookedly. “Just as well I hadn’t unpacked.”

  He’d be glad to get back to London. And the first thing he was going to do was find Kirkland and ask what the devil had happened to Will’s only brother.

  Chapter 31

  Kiri yawned her way down the stairs to breakfast. Though she enjoyed social gatherings and people of all sorts, ten days of clubs, gamblers, and sipping alcoholic beverages she didn’t really want had left her yearning for a quiet evening on Exeter Street. Even better would be a quiet evening with her family, but they had all gone north to her brother’s estate. She liked it better when everyone she loved was nearby.

  Far worse than missing her family was knowing that only a week remained before the opening of Parliament, and they’d made no more progress in breaking the conspiracy. There hadn’t been any assassination attempts, but that might only mean that the plotters were waiting for a big strike.

  Kiri hadn’t been in London long enough to attend a Parliamentary opening, but Mackenzie had explained that it was a very grand affair, with crowds of Londoners watching as members of the royal family and government ministers arrived. There was much pomp and tradition to demonstrate the power and grandeur of the kingdom. That also meant opportunities for the wicked.

  Cassie and Mackenzie were eating breakfast. He glanced up and gave her a warm smile. They had both managed to be businesslike and honorable for the last several days, to Kiri’s regret.

  Every time she looked at him, she remembered how his arms felt when he’d asked her not to flirt. One arm clasped around her waist, the other above her breasts, fitting her against him perfectly.

  For a joyous instant, she’d thought he’d changed his mind about what constituted honor, but then the damned man had let her go. Not happily, but he’d done it. She told herself that she wouldn’t want a man with no self-discipline, but she wasn’t sure she believed that.

  Covering another yawn, she investigated the warming dish that held their hot breakfast. Eggs scrambled with onions and potatoes with bacon on the side. Good fuel for a bright but frosty morning.

  Carmichael entered the breakfast room with a purposeful expression. Cassie glanced up. “Good news?” she asked. “Conspirators captured?”

  “Not yet, but at least a change of pace,” Carmichael replied. “There’s going to be a boxing match this afternoon. Not one of the big championships, but a smaller one that will draw Londoners and lower members of the Fancy.”

  Kiri came alert. “Like the kidnapper who was at Damian’s.”

  “Exactly,” the Runner said. “Do you think you can recognize him, Kiri?”

  “I might,” she said cautiously. “He wasn’t wearing a particular cologne, but I got a good look at his build and movements, and a good sniff.”

  “Certainly worth a try,” Mackenzie said. “The clock is ticking, and we’re not making any progress.”

  “Kirkland has other irons in the fire beside us.” Carmichael grimaced. “Unfortunately, they aren’t heating up either.”

  “That could change at any moment.” Mackenzie glanced at Kiri. “Wear something subdued. We don’t want to start a riot.”

  “Besides, it’s cold out today,” Cassie pointed out. “Who are the fighters?”

  “Two young boxers called McKee and Cullen. They’re both considered promising, so they should draw well.”

  “Poor damned fools,” Cassie muttered. “You won’t enjoy this, Kiri.”

  “Probably not,” Kiri said, thinking of what she’d heard about bare-knuckle boxing. “But it will be a new experience.”

  She’d been having lots of new experiences ever since she came to England. She studied Mackenzie as he served himself breakfast. And there was one new experience she very much wanted to repeat. . . .

  There had been a hard frost in the night, so the day was bright and cold. The match had drawn a large crowd to a field behind a riverside tavern. Kiri held onto Mackenzie’s arm, a little wary of the excited mood. Most of the onlookers were working men, with a sprinkling of well-dressed gentlemen.

  The four of them arrived at the match in a dingy but sizable carriage, which the driver parked on one side of the field. Some carriage owners sat on top of their vehicles for a clear view, but the Exeter Street group joined the crowd. There were only a few other women, and none of them were ladies.

  In the center of the field, an eight-foot square had been roped off using four stakes. A pair of shirtless men stood in opposite corners glaring at each other as supporters called comments to their favorites.

  Mackenzie, who was solidly in his role of northern merchant, explained, “Each
fighter has a couple of attendants who provide water and oranges and towels to sponge off blood and sweat. A round is fought until one man is knocked down. Then there’s a thirty-second break for them to recover. Then another round. They fight until one of them can’t anymore.”

  She made a face, though probably he couldn’t tell because of the deep bonnet she wore. “They look cold without their shirts.”

  “They’ll warm up quickly when the fight starts,” Mackenzie said.

  Knowing that many gentlemen studied boxing at Gentleman Jackson’s salon, she asked, “Do you box?”

  “And ruin my handsome face? Not for me, lass!” He wiggled his brows comically. “They’re about to start. The blond fellow is Cullen, and the dark one is McKee.”

  Within three minutes, Kiri knew that she didn’t ever want to attend another boxing match. She winced and looked away as the two men hammered away at each other. “This is horrible! They look like they’re trying to do murder.”

  “That’s not the aim, but boxers do die from the beating with some regularity,” Mackenzie admitted. “But skill is more important than brute strength. McKee is the better boxer and he’s holding his own even though he’s smaller. Look at his quick footwork as he moves in to hit, then dances back out of the way of Cullen’s fist.”

  Wryly she realized that her escort had been sucked into the contest, like all the other men around. “Remember why we’re here,” she said, keeping her voice low, though the crowd was noisy enough to cover a conversation. “You can watch the match, but can we wander around on the edges while I look for suspects?”

  He gave her a rueful smile. “Sorry. It’s a good match, but you’re right that duty comes first.”

  He began strolling around the edge of the crowd, Kiri clinging to his arm as if she found the rough crowd alarming. The concealment afforded by her bonnet allowed her to study the men. A fair number looked like boxers themselves, with muscular bodies and battered faces, but she didn’t see one who looked like the third kidnapper.