by Kate Moore
“Considering the alternative, it seemed the wisest course?”
“What alternative? Attentive, gallant behavior?”
“Ravishing you in a carriage.”
“People do not engage in...carnal congress in carriages with coachmen on the box and footmen riding behind, besides linkboys and who knows who else about and the discomforts and...”
“Oh, but they do. Consult your guidebook. I think you’ll find that the author advises against being alone in a closed carriage with a man.”
Emily certainly knew the essential mechanics of carnal embrace. She’d read the radical pamphlets written for poor women on the subject of cundoms. And the outraged letters to the Times about those pamphlets. She just hadn’t imagined until this moment in Lynley’s presence the gap between reading about the subject and engaging in the activity. And there was another gap she had not considered—the gap between sitting upright and fully clothed in conversation with a man and lying unclothed with him for a different form of intercourse.
“You’re thinking again.”
“I’m trying to understand how it can be managed.”
“Trust me. It can be done.”
“But you don’t mean to do it.” She shook her head to rid it of confusion. “You kiss to distract me. You could simply say that you don’t wish me to pry.”
“I don’t wish you to pry into my interest in Lady Ravenhurst. There, I’ve said it. Now, can we go back to where we were?” He reached for her again.
Emily held him off with a hand pressed against his chest. “We can’t continue an engagement, even such an engagement as ours, if you have a romantic interest in another woman, a married woman, at that.”
“I don’t,” he said.
She let her hand drop. His denial sounded sincere. She wished she could see his face properly. The fleeting play of light and shadow in the dark carriage made a searching inquiry of a man’s face impossible. Gentlemen were supposed to be free, after certain marital obligations had been met, to pursue other interests. It should not bother her, but Emily did not wish to contemplate Lynley pursuing Lady Ravenhurst. But if he was telling her the truth, she must draw a different conclusion. “Then you are a...spy?”
“Spy?”
“What would you call it? You are someone who does the government’s work. You’ve hatched some kind of plan with Phil.”
“You can’t imagine that Phil has anything to do with spying.”
“No, of course not.” When he put it like that, the whole idea seemed absurd. But she knew how to test him. “Ride with me in the morning.”
There was a pause before he said, “Yes.”
“Circe and I will be ready at seven.” If he had some plan with Phil that would keep them out until the small hours of the morning, he would hardly agree to meet her so early.
“Seven it is,” he said.
Chapter Eight
There is in human society a tendency for the fortunate among us to mistake our favorable circumstances for superiority of character. And to consider those whom circumstance places beneath us as deserving of their position though fortune is wholly external to either party. While it is unlikely that the husband hunter will encounter genuine vice in her Season, London, like any great city, has its unsavory neighborhoods where the merely unfortunate and the actively ill-intentioned mingle.
—The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London
The widowed Mrs. Hewitt, who, as Phil explained, had once been quite respectable, now ran an elegant little gaming establishment on a quiet street off St. James’s Square. Lynley had seen most of its rooms the night before. The club had a faro bank, a spinning EO wheel, and rooms for several varieties of card play. The supper was passable, but he could have advised their hostess on her choice of wines. There was not an acceptable sherry in her cellar.
Greeting them, their amiable hostess explained certain house policies, including a rule against smoking. She said she would not have her drapery reeking of smoke. Lynley gave Phil a small stake for the faro table, told him not to lose too much, and made a complete circuit of the other rooms. There was no sign of Archer and his friend from the evening before, no sign of documents being exchanged, no one speaking Russian, merely Englishmen careless of their fortunes, willing to risk vast sums on the turn of a card. Again, Lynley had to concede that so far the leads he’d followed from Lady Ravenhurst’s party had led nowhere. He did find the lady herself at Barksted’s side in a room devoted to hazard.
The only woman at a table with six gentlemen, Lady Ravenhurst eagerly took the dice cup in hand and declared a main of eight. She rolled a nick to win her stake and barely paused to scrape her winnings toward Barksted before declaring another main. She rolled the chance three times, winning a streak of side bets, before losing her turn to the fellow on her left. Her spirits seemed to ride on the rattle of the dice in the leather cup, their tumble across the green baize, and the pair of numbers facing up. She reminded Lynley of a rider galloping neck or nothing at a fence, and he knew she wanted only to roll again.
After play had gone round the table, the group paused to refill glasses. Lynley did not know how badly she was dipped, but she turned to Barksted, appealing to him to stake her to another round. The man smiled and produced a roll of the ready from an inner pocket. She laughed, snatched at the roll, and withdrew to the ladies’ retiring room.
Lynley knew boredom. He knew restrictions. He knew the exhilaration of breaking out of one’s bonds. And he knew that losing and borrowing to play again was a sure trap. Nothing put a person in another’s power like borrowing blunt you could not return.
Minutes later, Lady Ravenhurst emerged from attending to her toilette, and frowned when she saw Lynley. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to escort you home whenever you’re ready to leave.”
Her mouth closed in a stubborn line. “I’ll not be going home until after supper.”
“Supper is available now if you’d let me escort you.”
“Pardon me.” Mrs. Hewitt’s voice came from behind him.
Lynley turned to find his hostess unsmiling, no longer cordial.
“I must ask you to leave, Sir Lynley. The club does not provide refreshment for those who do not play,” she said.
Barksted stood behind Mrs. Hewitt, and behind him stood Phil, holding their hats and coats and looking most uneasy.
“I’m ready if you are, Lynley,” Phil called.
Instinct rebelled against leaving any woman, no matter how lost in folly, with Barksted. Lynley hardly knew the man, but he did not doubt his power over Lady Ravenhurst. Still he knew better than to try to separate a woman from the passion that drove her. That was a lesson he’d learned early in life.
Lynley bowed to the ladies.
Outside the club Phil fixed his hat on his head. “Glad to be out of there. Breathe fresh air.”
London was hardly noted for its fresh air, but Lynley knew what Phil meant. The night felt cool and clean after Mrs. Hewitt’s stale rooms.
“Ugly customer, that Barksted,” said Phil. “Has Mrs. Hewitt in his pocket, I suspect.”
“Mrs. Hewitt?” Lynley woke the hackney driver waiting for them.
Phil nodded. “Saw Barksted set Mrs. Hewitt on you.”
“Thanks, Phil. That’s most helpful.”
Phil shrugged. “Friends, don’t you know.” He climbed into the hackney and looked back at Lynley. “You’re walking?” He sounded uneasy. “I don’t like it.”
“Only a few blocks. It’ll clear my head.” He waved Phil off. The carriage pulled away, the rumble of its wheels receding as it turned the corner.
Lynley started walking. He needed to think about the case. He had been certain when he’d joined the spy club that he would have no trouble finding the missing documents. His brief stint as a highwayman had ended, and he had blithely signed the year-and-a-day ag
reement that governed Goldsworthy’s spies, thinking only of the lark it would be. That was before he’d met Emily Radstock. She had an unexpected ability to distract him, and yet she seemed dangerously alert to his actions.
He had nearly reached Piccadilly when late bells rang the hour with remarkable unison from a half dozen or more nearby churches. As he turned into the short, dark block of Bennet Street, the peals faded, and he heard heavy footsteps close in on him from behind.
He spun around, flinging up his left hand and taking a blow to the forearm from a short club. His hat went flying. He aimed his right fist at his assailant’s jaw. Fist and bone collided with a jarring impact that sent the man staggering backward into a second fellow. The second man flung the first aside and came after Lynley like a bull, head down. Lynley stepped aside, letting the man plow with a heavy thud into the brick façade of a shop.
The second man grunted and rolled to one side, leaning against the bricks, his breath coming in thick pants.
Lynley lunged forward. His evening shoes slipped on the cobbles, and he went down hard. He scrambled up, quick, but not quick enough. His assailants had cut him off, one on either side of him, blocking the ends of the street. They were indistinguishable, compact and brutish, dressed in layers of rough, dark clothing, hats pulled low over their brows, hands in leather gloves. They knew their business.
Lynley could handle one of them easily enough, but two would be difficult. In his evening clothes and shoes, he was at a further disadvantage. In the light of a single street lamp he saw no weapon other than the short club in the first man’s hand, but he wouldn’t put it past the second fellow to produce a blade.
His pulse raced. His heart pounded. He made himself think in spite of his body’s clamor for action. Neither of them had spoken. There had been no demand for his blunt. They had not, then, been lying in wait to relieve some gentleman of his purse on the way home from a night’s gaming.
“Tell Barksted,” Lynley said, “that his methods won’t stop me.”
“Yer a cheeky one ta give orders,” the second man said, but he did not deny the Barksted connection. He nodded to his companion, and the two began to close in on Lynley.
Lynley removed one of his useless shoes and tossed it at the single lamp illuminating the scene. Glass shattered, and the flame flickered and went out. He pressed back in the shadow of the building.
The shuffling of his attackers’ feet sounded loud in his ears. He had only delayed the inevitable. He guessed they meant to give him a beating as a warning not to interfere at the club with whatever it was that Barksted had going.
“Where is ʼe?” one of the men said.
“Between us, ye nodcock. Keep movin’ in.”
The attack when it came was a flurry of kicks and blows, grunts and thuds. Lynley kept his back to the wall, his arms up in a fighting stance. His ribs and forearms took most of the punishment. He kept thinking about how long they would keep it up and how much punishment he could deal out in return.
He realized they wanted him to go down, but refused to give them the satisfaction. He wanted blood. With an upward backhanded swing of his left fist he caught one man’s nose. The man’s head snapped back. The crack of his nose mingled with his yelp of pain, and a spray of blood hit Lynley as the man reeled away. The other man cursed and drove in on Lynley, furiously swinging his club.
Lynley started to go down under the blows when a flash of light caught the attacker’s face as a hackney came round the corner. The driver drove right at them, and the attacker scurried back, lifting his companion by his collar and hauling the man up. They stumbled off in the dark as the hackney stopped in front of Lynley.
A man jumped down from the passenger seat.
“Phil, is that you?” Lynley asked.
“Came back. Didn’t like you walking.”
“Thanks.”
“Let’s get you home.”
“Gladly.” Suddenly, Lynley was aware of all the places that hurt. He would not be riding with Emily Radstock at seven.
Chapter Nine
The plainest girl from the grandest manor or the most insignificant cottage longs from an early age to be a bride. The sun of her imagined wedding day casts bright beams over the lesser, unmarked days of her girlhood. In the manor she tries on the veil and coronet preserved by mother and grandmother. Beyond the cottage gate she gathers wildflowers to carry down weedy aisles. Wandering on her own, she writes new names for herself with a stick in church registries on the banks of streams. She is a mere girl. No one sees the vivid life within her. No one notes her capacity for love. Yet she never doubts that she is meant to be seen, known, loved, and chosen. She is meant to be a bride.
—The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London
Emily poked at the eggs on her plate, round and perfect, crisp on the edges, white with dark yellow centers, a well-matched pair.
Generally, she liked breakfast. A lady could almost always eat breakfast in the privacy of her family’s morning room without anyone commenting on what or how much she consumed, while at a dinner or a ball, the lady of delicacy and sensibility must appear to exist on air. Nothing substantial could touch her lips. She could not be caught in the act of chewing. Emily had not chewed a morsel in public in her first three Seasons.
This morning, disappointment lodged in her throat. In the carriage after the opera she had guessed that Lynley was preparing for some adventure. He had the kind of energy that required action. And the whole point of trying to kiss her had clearly been to distract her so that she would not, could not, think about his real object in becoming engaged to her.
She broke the yellow center of one of her eggs and dipped a corner of toast in it. This morning she had to face facts. She had let herself be seduced by the idea of being engaged. It mortified her to realize that dangling her ring over the side of Lynley’s carriage, catching the envious looks of girls still waiting for their moment, she had been as caught up in bride fever as the greenest girl in her first Season.
In Emily’s case the ring on her finger was a hollow show. It had changed nothing. She had her life. Lynley had his. She had letters to write and people to meet. Arthur Broome was still in Marshalsea Prison. Lynley probably had a pressing need to stroll down to his club. A two-day engagement did not mean either of them had to change plans made previously. She should simply ignore him and go about her day as if his failing to ride with her made no difference to her life.
She jabbed the remaining yolk. She could just imagine him lying in bed, his dark hair tousled, his long limbs tangled in sheets and coverlet, his eyes closed with the dark lashes down across his cheeks, and his beautiful crooked mouth slightly open. Best not to think about Lynley’s mouth. The thought made her conscious of her own mouth.
She blinked. April sunshine streamed through the morning room windows. Her father sat at his end of the table behind the Chronicle, drinking his tea. It was like dining alone. She could break crockery or set the room on fire before Papa would look up. Pressing matters of national finance and threats of war occupied his mind, not a superfluous unmarried daughter.
There had been a time when Papa, Mama, and their three offspring—Emily, Frederick, and Roz—had all taken breakfast together, and Mama had banished the paper and insisted on conversation. They had been children then. Now Roz and Frederick had homes of their own. It was only Emily who remained in her childhood place. No wonder her father took no notice of her. She was supposed to be elsewhere. And now that she was engaged, her father truly had no need to concern himself with her.
“The opera party went well, Papa,” Emily said.
Behind the Chronicle her father gave no sign of hearing her. She pushed away from the table.
“I think I’ll find Lynley this morning and break a vase over his head.” She had no idea where Lynley lodged. She could neither send a message nor go round to pound on his door until his servant
s admitted her.
The paper rustled in her father’s hands. He mumbled something.
Emily stood and took a last reluctant look at her eggs. “Of course, I don’t know where Lynley lodges, so I may be obliged to wander about London with the appropriate vase for some time. I was thinking of the two-handled, Sphinx-headed blue pot in the second drawing room. It’s time for Mama to redecorate, don’t you think?”
The newspaper came down a bit. She could see her father’s brown hair, wrinkled brow, and puzzled blue eyes. “Your mother has decorating plans?”
Emily smiled. It occurred to her where she could go to find Lynley. Phil would know. “As soon as she comes home.”
Her father lowered his paper to the table. “Are you off then, Em?”
“I’m going to look in on Roz.”
Her father nodded, and the paper came back up.
* * * *
A footman admitted Emily to the house, explaining that Mr. Gittings was not available. Tugging at her bonnet strings, Emily assured him that she knew her way to the morning room.
“No one’s about, miss,” the footman said. “Breakfast has been put back on account of the master’s guest.”
“Guest?” Emily removed her gloves and cloak.
“In the drawing room, miss.”
“Thank you. I’ll see myself up.” Emily smiled and handed her gloves and cloak to the footman as if she were paying an ordinary morning call. She could think of only one guest who would make himself free with Roz’s drawing room.
The room lay hushed, cool, and dark and apparently deserted, no fire yet lit in the hearth. A single shaft of light where the drapery panels did not meet made a bright path across the pale blue carpet. Emily closed the door behind her and stood listening. From behind the curved back of the large green sofa came the faint rumble of a mild snore.
She crossed the room and peeked over the sofa back. There was her fiancé, lying just where he’d been hiding the day they met. Her stomach dropped the way it did when she and Circe took a jump. She clenched her fists to keep from reaching down to touch him.
