He nodded, impressed. “You believe she’ll discuss the fire with you?”
“I have no idea.” She tucked her notebook inside her pocket, facing him with an air of breezy determination. “I won’t know until I try, will I?”
“You mean, until we try.”
She looked startled, then dismayed. “That’s very kind, but there’s no need for you to accompany me, I assure you. I’ve been making these forays to the East End for years and—”
“In search of a few choice morsels of gossip to sprinkle through your column,” he pointed out. “Not following the trail of a deadly arsonist who has apparently singled you out for his attention. Need I remind you that there is a difference?”
“Nevertheless, I would rather—”
“I insist.”
Their eyes met and held for a long moment. “I don’t suppose there’s anything I can say that might dissuade you?” she said at last.
“No.”
“I thought not.” She let out a soft sigh. “Very well.” She paused, eyeing him critically. “Do you have anything disreputable to wear?”
He arched one dark brow. “I thought my reputation was disreputable enough. I wasn’t aware my clothing needed to reinforce it.”
“For our purposes it does. There is a ragman who operates a cart not far from here. Perhaps you have a footman who might run an errand for me, were I to tell him what I want?”
Now it was his turn to look appalled. “You’re not suggesting—”
“A chimney sweep,” she announced definitively. “If your scars show, they will not be questioned. In fact, they should serve to add a bit of authenticity to your costume. Perhaps then no one will notice your face.”
“My face?” Morgan had not been aware there was a problem with his face. In fact, just the opposite was true. Through some absurd twist of fate, his face was one of the few areas on his person that hadn’t been scarred by the fire.
“You look” — she hesitated, as though searching for just the right word — “imperious. Aristocratic. As though you were used to giving orders rather than receiving them. If you speak, that will be even more evident. It might be best if you accompany me as a mute chimney sweep.”
Before he could reply to that preposterous statement, she turned her attention from him and removed her notebook from her pocket. She scribbled furiously for a moment, then tore off the page and passed it to him. “I believe that should suffice. Do ask your footman to hurry, however. And for heaven’s sake don’t dally in dressing. I should like to be under way within the hour.”
With that imperious announcement, she swept from the room, her drab brown skirts trailing in her wake. Morgan watched her leave, battling alternating surges of admiration and irritation. In the space of a single morning, she had thoroughly disrupted his routine, put him in the ridiculous position of bartering over his nuptial rights, directly challenged his domestic authority, and openly, casually, referred to his scars, something no one — no one — ever did. Now she expected him to trail after her in the ridiculous guise of a mute chimney sweep.
Again, an inauspicious beginning. When Julia Prentisse had come to him with the extraordinary proposition that they wed, capturing Lazarus had been paramount in his mind. But as usual, hindsight provided the better view of events. As he stood alone in the breakfast parlor, the list of ragged clothing dangling from his fingertips, it occurred to Morgan that he ought to have spent more time getting to know his new bride.
CHAPTER FIVE
Julia stood in the main foyer, tapping her fingernails impatiently along the smooth oak balustrade as she waited for Morgan to make his appearance downstairs. She glanced at the set of matching settees that had been upholstered in a rich midnight blue brocade, but was too restless to sit. The footman had returned some minutes ago with the bundle of charred rags she had requested. After considerable reluctance on his part, Morgan had at last relented to what he termed her ridiculous whim and retreated to his chamber to don the apparel.
At the sound of a footfall above her, she turned her attention to her husband as he descended the stairs. He wore a pair of threadbare pants, torn and sloppily patched at the knees, and a collarless jacket that was badly stained with soot. His wrinkled shirt, perhaps white originally, was now a dull mushroom gray. A dirty hounds tooth cap crowned his head. His shoes didn’t quite reach the point where his pants abruptly stopped. He wore no stockings on his feet, resulting in the prominent display of his bare ankles.
Julia eyed him critically as he approached, looking for glaring imperfections that might give his costume away. Finding nothing amiss, she nodded slowly. “Yes, I think so,” she said. “It suits you.”
“No need to be insulting.”
She didn’t know whether to laugh or say something encouraging. Deciding that the latter was a more prudent course, she sent him a small, fleeting smile. “I realize the clothing is somewhat bizarre, but I find it’s the only way.” When that prompted no reply, she continued. “You’re being quite cooperative.”
A sardonic smile curved his lips. “Exactly what I’ve always aspired to be known as: cooperative.”
He leaned against the balustrade and folded his arms against his chest, regarding her with a look she couldn’t begin to interpret. That absence of understanding made her feel intensely awkward, for her mind instantly conjured a thousand possibilities of what he might be thinking — none of which was particularly flattering to her. Something about his gaze was unlike that of other men. She felt as though he could see right through her, unveiling her innermost thoughts and desires. The sensation was not a comfortable one.
Abruptly abandoning the subject of his clothing, she turned and gestured to the oil portraits that filled the hall, latching almost desperately onto the fresh topic. “I’ve been admiring your collection of portraits,” she lied, having given the oils nothing but a cursory glance. “Your ancestors, I assume.”
“Indeed.” He gave a brief nod, and then studied her with a look of mild curiosity. “Which do you like best?”
Surprised by the question, Julia returned her attention to the majestic paintings that towered above her. Judging by the style of dress and the way the subjects had been posed, the portraits went back in time at least ten generations. Although they were all fine works of art, only one painting truly caught and held her attention. Imperiously peering down at her was a dark-haired man dressed in sixteenth-century finery, an elaborate lace collar, and cuffs peeking out from beneath what appeared to be a velvet jacket.
Something in the man’s expression reminded her sharply of Morgan. His posture of stiff formality was softened by the subtle grin that curved his lips, as though he were aware of a secret no one else knew. He exuded an air of mastery, self-reliance, and self-control — coupled with just a hint of self-mockery, as though he was sharply aware of the humor in his posing for such a flamboyant portrait. Seated in a throne like chair before him was a lovely woman with chestnut hair and warm green eyes. Unlike the other women depicted in the various oils, she exuded an air of genuine happiness. In a gesture of intimacy not found in the other portraits, she held her husband’s hand in hers. Through a broad open window behind the pair could be seen a vista of the sea. A tall three-masted schooner floated in the calm azure waters.
“This one,” she said, not certain whether it was the subject’s resemblance to Morgan or the intimacy conveyed between the man and the woman that drew her to it. She knew only that the painting intrigued her far more than any of the others.
“Interesting choice.” He turned to the painting she had indicated and cocked one dark eyebrow. “My namesake, the original Morgan St. James. He was hanged for piracy six months after that portrait was finished.”
Julia studied the painting with renewed interest. “What happened to his wife?”
“I’m told she lived into old age in relative comfort. Her husband’s wealth might have been of rather dubious origin, but it was nevertheless quite securely invested. During
the course of their marriage, she bore six children, only one of whom lived into adulthood.”
“How awful,” she murmured. “First to lose her husband, then to suffer the heartbreak of watching her children die.”
Morgan shrugged. “The St. James family is marked by a distinct propensity to die young. On the whole it’s rather a nuisance, but I suppose it rids us of the ghastly spectacle of squabbling among cousins over the rights of inheritance.”
She smiled. “I suppose so.”
“I might add that it also explains my urge to create an heir. I would hate for the entire line of noble scoundrels to come to an end at my door. I’ve beaten death once; I doubt I’ll be given a second chance.”
Julia’s smile abruptly faded. She wondered fleetingly if he was deliberately being perverse and attempting to make her feel guilty for temporarily denying him his conjugal rights. But somehow that didn’t seem like Morgan’s style. Even if it were the case, she decided, they had made a bargain and firmly settled the matter. There was no point in revisiting the issue.
That decided, she directed her reply to the subject of the artwork. Beyond the mere images of the men and women who were Morgan’s ancestors, several paintings featured a unique item that appeared significant to the couple portrayed. In one case it was a pair of dueling pistols, in another a magnificent piece of jewelry, in another an ancient map. “I notice that some of the paintings seem more like illustrations to a story than portraits,” she remarked.
He nodded. “A bit of insurance that the family legends will be passed on from generation to generation, I suppose. I’ll relate them to you another time if you like. Our own portrait will have to be done as well. I thought of engaging Thomas Fike for the position, unless you have someone else you might recommend.”
His words brought a frown to her lips. Although Thomas Pike was an artist of great renown, Julia couldn’t quite imagine herself and Morgan standing side by side, peering down at succeeding generations like ancient exemplars of matrimonial happiness and duty.
Misinterpreting her expression, Morgan said, “If his work doesn’t suit you, there are any number of artists who—”
“No, I have no objection to Mr. Fike at all,” she assured him. “It’s just that…” She hesitated, searching for the right words. “That seems so… permanent, doesn’t it?”
“Marriages generally are. Perhaps someone should have warned you about that before you entered into this arrangement.”
This time there was no mistaking his deliberate baiting. Refusing to display any reaction to his words, she eyed him coolly, and then turned her attention to what appeared to be the most recent of the portraits.
“Your parents?” she guessed.
“Yes.”
She scanned the portrait but found no hint as to the nature or temperament of the couple portrayed. Although the work had been commissioned when the man and woman were young, there was no sign of youthful gaiety on their faces. Instead they stared at the viewer with expressions of stodgy pomposity. They were posed in a library, sitting in stiffly backed chairs, distinctly apart from one another. No further clues were offered as to their temperament or their lives.
“What were they like?” she asked.
“Imperious and aristocratic.”
Julia’s first thought was that he was teasing her again, throwing back her own observation about him in her face. A fleeting smile touched her lips, but it disappeared at his stony expression. As usual, his gray eyes were cool and unfathomable. A dark and foreboding image of the future suddenly loomed before her. She couldn’t imagine herself ever growing closer to the man she had taken for her husband. They would forever be strangers, sharing a relationship that was polite but empty.
In that instant she experienced a sudden urgency to be under way, desperate for any action that might divert her stark thoughts. Forcing a tone of cheerful purpose, she said, “I believe the groomsman brought the coach around some minutes ago.”
Morgan didn’t move. “Did he?”
“Yes. And the horses too.”
“How very thorough of the man.”
“I believe they’re waiting. Just for us.” When the statement still provoked no action on his part, she urged, “We should go.”
Finally he straightened. “By all means, princess. Heaven forbid we keep the horses waiting.”
The Blue Kettle was located on Chanhurst Lane, a narrow, unlovely street shadowed by tall tenement buildings with pockmarked brick facades. A chaotic mix of women running errands, children playing, dogs barking, babies shrieking, and men selling everything from fish and milk to bones and rags jammed the lane. The stench of rotting refuse hung in the air. Wet laundry, hampered by the lack of sunlight and fresh air, dripped soured suds from clotheslines that had been stretched between buildings. A miscellany of carts and wagons choked the street. As was the case with most sections of London’s East End, life was bare and exposed.
Julia and Morgan had sent their driver away some blocks ago, having decided to continue their journey on foot. That decision had been reached partly out of concern for appearances — it-would not do for a scullery maid and a chimney sweep to descend from a coach as regal as that of Morgan’s — and partly out of pure logistics: the vehicle was simply too broad to navigate the narrow streets.
Julia deftly lifted her skirts to dodge a particularly offensive pile of refuse. Having spent the past several years visiting the haunts of the servants who worked for London’s elite, she had grown somewhat accustomed to the squalor that surrounded them. But she doubted Morgan St. James had ever been exposed to London’s cruder side. Men of his class rarely ventured beyond their manicured gardens and private clubs and thus were perfectly comfortable blaming the poor for the abysmal conditions in which they lived. Curious to see if Morgan fit that same mold, she cast a surreptitious glance at his face as they walked. She searched for signs of repulsion or contempt but found nothing in his gaze but remote indifference.
At last they came to the shop he had been seeking. No distinct sign welcomed them, just a tin teakettle that had been thickly coated with chipped blue paint. The door was propped open. The sounds of raised voices and laughter, the scuffing of chairs, and the clatter of dishes drifted out from within the shop. Julia nodded to Morgan, then stepped inside. After taking a moment to adjust her eyes to the dimness of the interior, she scanned the room for Sarah Montgomery.
Their arrival was poorly timed. It being noon, the small tea shop swarmed with men and women taking a brief break from their labors, making it difficult to see through the crowds. Nevertheless they had arrived, and there was nothing to be done now but proceed as best as they could. With that in mind she gave Morgan a brief nod and moved through the stuffy room. The long plank tables were crowded with workers hunched over their food; there wasn’t a chair to be had. Standing room was available in a far corner, however, and it was there that they stationed themselves. A stout woman with a floppy mobcap and no-nonsense manner approached them and recited the special of the day in a flat monotone: baked cod and fried potatoes. Julia asked for tea and a biscuit, Morgan requested ale. The woman nodded, removed dirty dishes from a shelf that protruded from the wall, and moved off.
Julia scanned the room, convinced that they had missed Miss Montgomery completely. Then a movement near the front door caught her eye.
“That’s her,” she whispered to Morgan, indicating a pretty young woman with light brown hair.
Sarah Montgomery’s attire was simple but neat — a pale blue muslin gown trimmed with a touch of lace. She carried two cloth bags packed with what appeared to be a variety of produce, bread, and goods from the butcher. She moved through the crowds with a breezy familiarity, and then disappeared through an open door that led to the kitchens. Julia assumed that the woman had simply ducked inside to deposit her parcels before taking a seat for her midday meal, but when Miss Montgomery didn’t reappear after a few minutes, she turned to Morgan with a puzzled frown.
“Perh
aps she does the marketing for this establishment as well,” he said.
“Yes, perhaps.”
A reasonable explanation, but one that didn’t quite feel right. Nor did it make sense that Miss Montgomery would spend her hard-earned wages on a meal. One of the distinct advantages of working as a kitchenmaid was the rather liberal opportunity one had to sample any number of leftovers, from soups and breads to the finest quality meats. Julia had learned to trust her instincts, and those instincts told her that something else was at play here.
Before she could speculate further as to Miss Montgomery’s doings, the serving woman reappeared and set down their tea and ale. With a word of thanks, Morgan pulled a billfold from his coat, extracted a pound note, and passed it to her. The woman took the note with some surprise, eyeing the rich leather billfold from which it had come. Then her gaze moved appraisingly over Morgan, as though to reconcile the money with the man from whom it had come. She seemed to brush the matter off with a mental shrug, for she dug deep into her apron pocket for the proper change, passed Morgan the coins, and moved off without a word.
“That was foolish,” Julia reproved softly.
“Paying for our beverages?”
“The manner in which you paid,” she corrected. “You never know who might be watching. It isn’t wise to flash one’s money about so carelessly.”
An amused smile curved his lips. “I didn’t flash my money about. I merely removed my billfold and paid for our drinks.”
“Nevertheless, it’s hardly in keeping with your attire.”
He lifted his shoulders in a bored shrug, dismissing the topic.
Frustrated at his indifference, she glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed his gaffe. She was almost disappointed when she saw that his movement brought them no undue attention. Why wasn’t it glaringly obvious to everyone in the room that he didn’t belong? The fact was evident in more ways than the carelessness with which he displayed his billfold. It showed in the way Morgan moved, in his carriage, his mannerisms, his way of looking around the room and coolly sizing up the occupants. Nothing about him suggested a lifetime of meek servitude — regardless of his ragged attire.
With This Kiss Page 9
