by Jenny Brown
“He put the word out he might have a job for you. But you won’t be needin’ him now that you’ve gone off to live with the nobs.”
“You heard about that?”
“Everyone did. Snaggletooth saw you go off in the big carriage with the girls. You getting reformed, Tem?”
“Not likely.”
“Din’t think so. But it would be nice to spend the winter indoors,” he said wistfully. “Do Her Ladyship want to reform anyone else?”
A stab of guilt shot through her. Danny’s old coat was so ragged even the used-clothes man couldn’t have sold it. Even now, she still had so much more than the people she’d dedicated herself to serve. But she could do no more for him now.
“She only takes girls, mate,” she said brusquely. “And I’m out of there in a few days, too.” Then she thanked him for the information and, with much to ponder, turned her steps back toward the Refuge.
By the time Trev presented himself at East India Company headquarters in Leadenhall Street the following day for his appointment with the under secretary, he had begun to regret that he had given in to the temptation Major Stanley had planted in his mind and taken steps to summon the pickpocket. But his man had already delivered his message to the crossing boy, and there was no way to undo it.
Though, of course, he need not continue on the dangerous course he had begun. He hoped the department would offer him some task that would provide him something better to do than engage in such unwise behavior. It was one thing to take risks in the service of his country, quite another to take them, as he had with the pickpocket, out of idleness or vice.
When they were alone, Mr. Fanshawe began, “How good it is to meet you at last, Captain. Sir Charles has often sung your praises in his dispatches.”
The under secretary was a jowly, bespectacled man about fifty years of age with thinning hair, whose voice had that unctuous tone that seemed to be universal among men who worked out of luxurious offices.
He continued, “We at John Company would be in sorry shape were it not for the work he does for us at the Secret and Political Department. I hope I’m not being too forward in calling upon you so early in your leave, but it was to discuss that work I summoned you here. Sir Charles intimated you would not be averse to taking on an errand or two for us while you were home. Is that, indeed, the case?”
“Very much so,” Trev assured him. “I am a man of action, and much as I value my leave, I find it hard to while away the time with so little to do.”
“Very good then. As it happens, I have here an invitation for you to visit Sir Humphrey Diggett next month at his estate in Surrey.”
“The Mad Nabob?”
“The very same. He’s acquired an obscure Vedic manuscript and requests we send him someone who has the skills needed to interpret it. Word of your mastery of Sanskrit has reached us even here, so you were the obvious man to send him. Does that interest you?”
“It does.” Who could resist a chance to visit the notorious estate, Srinagar Mahal, that Sir Humphrey had constructed on his acreage in Surrey with the millions he’d looted from the subcontinent. Even in the company mess, he’d heard tell of how the nabob had imported tigers and monkeys at ruinous expense, and—it was rumored—several beautiful nautch girls, too.
And Trev’s Sanskrit was indeed excellent. His munshi had taught him not only the modern languages, Hindustani and Maratha, but also the Sanskrit in which the ancient Hindu scriptures were written. But still, he felt a tinge of disappointment. When he’d received the letter hinting that the department had a job for him, he’d expected something more challenging than deciphering ancient scripture.
He was just preparing to leave when Fanshawe raised his hand in a gesture that bid him sit. “There’s one last thing, Captain Trevelyan. In the course of your visit, Sir Humphrey will be entrusting you with a valuable jewel.”
“A jewel?”
“Yes. The Jewel of Vadha. Sir Charles tells me I can rely entirely on your discretion.”
His disappointment had been premature. This would be, after all, exactly the kind of errand he’d learned to expect when working for Sir Charles.
Fanshawe went on. “Centuries ago, the jewel was stolen from an Indian prince, the Nawab of Bundilore. More recently, it made its way into the custody of our Sir Humphrey who, unfortunately, bragged of his acquisition in a way that brought it to the attention of the current Nawab, who now insists we return it to him. We’ve offered him other jewels far more valuable, but he wants the Jewel of Vadha and no other. Apparently, its value to him rests in some mystical property.”
The under secretary removed his spectacles and looked for the first time into Trev’s eyes. “He’s willing to go to war for it. A war that would prove costly not only for our troops but for those of our native allies who have already been called on to make extraordinary sacrifices. You of all people can understand why we cannot allow that to happen.”
He could. But he felt a qualm. Fanshawe was letting him know that he was aware of what had happened to the sepoys’ wives—and of the effect that catastrophe had had on Trev. Nor did he scruple to use that knowledge to ensure Trev would go along with his plans. How nasty would this “errand” turn out to be?
Choosing his words carefully, Trev asked, “Am I to extract this jewel from the possession of an unwilling owner?”
Fanshawe allowed himself to display a look of shock. “Certainly not. Sir Humphrey knows his duty. Your task will merely be to keep it safe after he hands it over.”
“That sounds straightforward enough.”
“It is. Though I must caution you, there is another party who would like to get his hands on it—and who wants it badly enough he would be willing to employ the most despicable methods to get it. It will be your responsibility to ensure that he does not.”
“I shall see to it.”
“Good.” Fanshawe stood to let him know the interview was over “You may expect to hear from me by the end of next week, when we will have made the arrangements for your visit. If you have any important business matters to attend to while on leave, I’d suggest you take care of them before then.”
“Will my duties in regard to this matter extend beyond the visit to Sir Humphrey’s?”
“Probably not, but it never hurts to take precautions. You know how these departmental matters can be.”
He did.
Mr. Fanshawe replaced his spectacles on his nose, rose, stuck out his hand, and exchanged a firm handshake with Trev. “Sir Charles spoke so well of you, I’m glad we shall have a chance to see you in action.”
“It will be good to be in harness once again.” He bowed politely and made his way to the door.
“Isn’t it summat how Lady Hartwood can see so much in those charts of hers?” Becky said, as Temperance, newly returned from her visit with the crossing boy, passed through the sunny parlor where the girls spent their afternoons. Lady Hartwood had already arranged for a music teacher to visit, and Clary was in the next room, working with him to learn her first scale.
“The underparlormaid tells me they call her Lady Lightning,” Becky continued, raising her wispy brows. “Rather fits her, don’t you think? Did she tell you aught when she read your fortune?”
“They may call her what they will. She didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know.”
“No?” Becky looked disappointed. “I was so hoping she would. Did she tell you anything about Randall?”
“No. Why should she?”
Becky shrugged. “Just wondering. But that reminds me. When I was going through our things, right before the wreckers came, I found a paper I thought you might want to have a look at.”
“A paper? Where?” Her heart stopped. Was it the long-lost letter she knew Randall must have left her before he set out on his last, fatal quest?
“In that heavy box you had hidden in the corner.”
“That was Randall’s box. You knew no one was to touch it.”
“Well, I cou
ldn’t carry that bugger of a box out of our crib on my own, and the wreckers were already there and giving us only a few minutes to collect our things. I thought there might be valuables left in it—it was Randall’s, after all, and we gave him every groat we knapped and never saw it again, did we? If he’d hidden some of our takings in the box, you wouldn’t have wanted me to leave that to the scavengers?”
“No, I wouldn’t,” she agreed, backing off her sharp tone. “And I’m more than grateful to you for rescuing what you could. But I’d already been through that box, and if I’d found anything, I’d have long ago pawned it for the money we need. You know that was what Randall taught us—anything of value any of us had was to be shared for the use of all.”
“Yes. That was what he taught,” Becky said, with heavy irony. “But whether he followed his own teaching . . .” Her voice drifted off. “Well, let me show you what I found.” She made her lurching way slowly up the stairs and returned a few moments later holding a single sheet of paper.
Temperance snatched it from her. The sheet was creased in a way that suggested it had been folded very small. That must be why she hadn’t noticed it when she had gone through the trunk before. But though the note was written in Randall’s hand, it wasn’t the longed-for letter of farewell. It was nothing more than a list of names: Miss Susan Atwater. Lady Lucy. The Sea Nymph. Each was followed by a date, every one within a few weeks of Randall’s death in the conspiracy.
“What do you think it means?” Becky asked softly.
She couldn’t begin to guess. Were these the coded names of other conspirators? The nicknames of the fences who bought the things the girls stole to finance Randall’s work? Perhaps, but some evil demon whispered they were the nicknames of other women. The ones he had assured her he hadn’t had that night before he went off to his death. She thrust the paper into her pocket, fighting not to feel the all-too-familiar bite of jealousy.
“It’s nothing of importance. But thanks for showing it to me, anyway.”
Her hand flew to her locket, the pledge Randall had given her of his love, as it always did when she felt herself assailed by doubt. But, of course, it was gone. Bloody hell. If only she could have gazed upon Randall’s face once more. That would have driven off her doubts and reminded her of how much he had loved her. Without the locket, it was so hard to keep faith. Perhaps she would have to risk going to the masquerade to get it back, after all.
Chapter 5
After his interview with Mr. Fanshawe, Trev flirted again with the idea of giving up his scheme of attending the masquerade. Now that he was taking on another mission to serve King and Country with the talents that had made him so useful to Sir Charles, it would not be wise to give in to his attraction to a woman of the criminal classes. It had been boredom that had fed his passion for the pickpocket, boredom he need no longer fear now that the department had work for him.
But no sooner had he resolved to give up all thought of finding her again than it struck him that if the hint the under secretary had given him about tidying his affairs meant what he thought it did, his return to India might come sooner than expected. If that were so, he would have to turn all too soon to finding the gently raised bride he’d promised his mother. So while he was still free, why not attend the masquerade? If the pickpocket didn’t show up, he would find others there who could scratch the itch she’d roused in him.
Which was why he found himself at midnight Thursday at the edge of the large assembly room at the Opera House, searching for the pickpocket’s slim form among the costumed revelers who stepped their way through the figures of the quadrille.
He could no longer fool himself that he didn’t care whether she appeared or not. He cared too much. But even if she had responded to his summons, how would he find her among the hundreds who crowded the floor?
It was true, as Major Stanley had suggested, that nowhere else in England did the classes mix with such careless abandon as they did here. With their features hidden behind thin silk masks, the more reckless members of Society could mix freely with the more presentable denizens of the London underworld. But it was their anonymity that made such promiscuity possible. So if Temperance was here, her face, too, would also be hidden behind a mask or a figure-concealing domino. How, then, was he to find her among the hundreds of women who filled the ballroom?
He’d done what he could to signal his identity to her by wearing the garb of a sultan. It had been an easy costume to assemble from his belongings, and, of course, it alluded to that brief conversation they had shared before they had moved past words. But now, as he mingled with the crowd, he felt faintly ridiculous.
What costume had she chosen? As the dancers swept by, he eliminated the shepherdesses and milkmaids. Temperance wouldn’t choose so pedestrian a disguise. Nor was she likely to display her charms as flagrantly as those Bacchae, dressed in transparent muslin drapes, whose well-rouged lips suggested they were professionals.
Perhaps she was hanging back in the shadows, looking for him among the dancers. If so, he must make it easier for her to find him. He made his way toward two women dressed as nuns whose posture told him they were open to solicitation for a dance, and possibly more.
As he did, he brushed against a young man dressed as a highwayman who stood in earnest conversation with a tigress. When Trev jostled against him, the youth bristled, and his body language made Trev instinctively reach for the pommel of his sword, only to remember that since he was out of uniform, he’d left it behind.
Backing away, Trev muttered an apology and asked one of the nuns for a dance. She offered him the tips of her mittened fingers and allowed him to lead her out onto the floor, where he danced with energy, wanting to put on a good show in case his Scheherazade was watching. His partner matched him step for step, and when the figure brought them together, he exchanged polite trifles with her, hearing in her voice the tones that suggested breeding. When their hands met, her touch hinted subtly at an invitation that might have intrigued him had he not come determined to find another woman.
But he had, and with every measure of the dance, his desire to find her grew—along with his conviction that he wouldn’t. No woman in the crowd had her regal carriage or her graceful neck, nor did any of them betray the tiny mole at the junction of neck and shoulder he remembered from that moment of heightened perception in the alleyway. Perhaps it was hidden by veil. More likely, she hadn’t come.
As the all-too-familiar pang of disappointment radiated through him, he couldn’t help but laugh at himself. How like him to find himself surrounded by acquiescent women and yearn only for the one he couldn’t have.
When the dance was over, he led his nun back to where he had found her and took his leave with a faint bow calculated to make it clear he had no further interest in her. Then, feeling a need for refreshment, he turned toward the farther end of the ballroom, where a table of dainties had been set out for the dancers.
The youth dressed as a highwayman was headed that way, too, pushing through the crowd of men intent on filling their glasses with the cheap wine included in the price of admission. He moved with a sinuous grace that put Trev on the alert. This was how he felt when he was on reconnaissance, just a few moments before he became aware of an actual threat.
He wondered what had awakened his instincts, then he got his answer. The highwayman’s hand moved with an economy of motion that would have escaped Trev’s notice had he not been on high alert, but he was, so he saw how it darted toward the back pocket of a heavyset man dressed in a judge’s robes and extracted a lacy pocket handkerchief, which disappeared instantaneously into the youth’s own pocket.
Trev glided toward him, taking care to stay behind him and change direction now and then so that, to an onlooker, he would appear to be moving randomly. He was starting to enjoy himself. He’d missed the feeling that possessed him now as he used his mind and body to do what he did so well. And as he observed the youth employing his carefully honed skills, his excitement grew
. His own skills were better.
The youth’s hand brushed against the coat of a man encumbered with the oversized lancet that proclaimed him a quack doctor. He’d tried to make it look like an accident. But he’d failed. Trev’s hand shot out and grasped the youth’s wrist. His quarry whipped around, vainly trying to hide the glittering object in his hand. Behind his mask, his eyes were wide with emotion.
“Put it back,” Trev said.
The youth’s lips clamped down hard. “Don’t know whatcher on about, Guv,” he rasped, in an unconvincing imitation of a Cockney accent.
“I saved you once. I won’t do it again.”
A deep flush rose along the swanlike neck. His instincts had been correct. And there was that mole, clearly visible at the opening of the highwayman’s ruffled shirt.
“I must thank you for making it easy to find you. I was at a loss as to how I’d do it in this crush. But now that we have met, you can put back the gentleman’s watch. And the other man’s handkerchief.”
Her eyes were the color of thunderheads just before a storm. They locked onto his, probing him, sending a jolt of desire through his loins. After a drawn-out pause, her hand went limp. She knew he wasn’t fooling.
In a low whisper, he said, “When you’ve restored your takings to their owners, meet me over there—by that alcove.”
“And if I won’t?”
“Then I keep your locket.”
She bit her lip. It reddened, further stimulating his desire. He could see the thoughts go through her mind as she calculated the possibilities open to her.
At length, she said, “Let me go, then. Can’t do nothing ’til you do.”
He released her wrist and stepped back though he kept her in view in case she intended to run away again. It would be harder for her to replace the stolen goods than it had been to extract them, but he’d seen enough to trust she had the skills.
To give her cover, he made a show of extracting a long pipe from one pocket and waved it around in what a Londoner might think was an oriental fashion. It would give anyone watching something to divert their attention. He didn’t like sending her to do something so dangerous, but he had no choice. He must show her who would be in command this time, and make it clear to her—and himself—that he wasn’t going to be making a habit of aiding her in crime.
