An Affair with a Spare (The Survivors)

by Shana Galen

  “No, but there’s no other way. It’s better if he doesn’t see me. If we make him nervous, he’s likely to flee the city, and then we’ve lost our only means of contacting your father’s captors. If he asks, tell him you took a hackney and gave the driver a ha’penny to come back in a quarter hour.”

  She swallowed and nodded. He was right, of course. She would have to go alone. And he’d be waiting for her here. He wouldn’t leave without her. Rafe pulled the letter from his coat and put it in her hands. With a nod, he stood back, under the steps so he couldn’t be seen from above. Collette lifted her skirts and started up the stairway. At the top, she knocked lightly on the worn wood. She didn’t see any light or hear any sound coming from inside, so she assumed W. Morgan was sleeping.

  She counted to ten and then knocked again, this time louder. The sound seemed to echo across the dark buildings, and she peeked over her shoulder to see if she’d roused anyone. Then the sound of a lock being turned made her jump, and she swung back around. The door opened a sliver.

  “What do you want?” asked a papery voice.

  Collette lowered her gaze to settle it on one blue eye looking out at her and a gnarled hand holding the door wide enough for that eye to see her.

  “I have business,” she whispered, not wanting to say too much before they were in private. “May I come in?”

  “What sort of business?” the old man asked.

  “The sort Lady Ravensgate comes to you about.”

  The eye peering at her blinked. The door opened wider and the man moved aside. Collette squeezed through and was all but shoved out of the way as the man hurried to bolt it again. Now that she was inside the room, she could see, by the light of a single lamp illuminating the room, that the man was thin, small, and garbed in a burgundy dressing gown that had once been rather lovely and elegant but now was thin and shabby. He was short, not quite her height, and he had white hair and wrinkled yellow skin. “Where is Lady Ravensgate?” he asked in a hushed voice.

  Collette had rehearsed her answer and responded without hesitation. “She ate something that has upset her stomach. We’ve called for the doctor.”

  “You fear poison?” the old man said, coming to exactly the conclusion she’d wanted.

  She paused, allowing the thought to seep in. “She sent me in her stead. The information in this letter”—now she held it up to the light—“is too valuable to delay in sending. I am—”

  He waved a hand. “I know who you are.”

  Did he also know where her father was? Did he know the men holding her father? Surely he was too old and frail to make the crossing and deliver the letters. But he undoubtedly knew something of their contents.

  “Then you will send the letter right away?” She offered him the letter, but he didn’t take it.

  “Who else knows you are here?” he asked.

  “No one but Lady Ravensgate. She did not wish to tell me where to go, but we had no other choice.”

  “And you say she has been poisoned?”

  She hadn’t said that at all, only implied it. “It might have been a bad piece of fish. The doctor has been summoned.”

  “How did you come to be at my door, all alone, in the middle of the night? I didn’t hear her ladyship’s carriage.”

  “I took a hackney and asked the driver to stop a little ways from the shop. I gave him a ha’penny to come back in a quarter of an hour. My time is almost up. Will you deliver the letter?”

  “And if I won’t?”

  She hadn’t expected this response. She had wanted this exchange to go quickly. The sooner she could be away from this dark flat and this man of questionable loyalties, the better. She straightened, determined not to show any fear. Only her courage would save her. “Then Lady Ravensgate and I will find someone who will.”

  The old man’s face didn’t change. “Do you really think you can save him?”

  She could only assume the old man meant her father. “That’s not your concern.” She moved toward the door. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  “What makes you think he isn’t dead already?”

  She paused. “What makes you think he is?”

  The old man met her gaze with pity in his eyes. “A man like that, better to let him die.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  “I know that soon it will be your head in the noose. Run while you still can.”

  Collette did run. She flung open the door and scrambled down the steps as fast as her legs would take her. When she reached the bottom, she didn’t stop running. Her only thought was to put distance between herself and the bookseller. All she had wanted was a quiet life for her father and herself. All she had wanted was peace.

  But she’d never have peace. Collette had begun to think she’d never see her father again. And what then? She’d be alone in the world, without family or friends. She had nothing. Even the clothes on her back did not belong to her. If Beaumont’s plan didn’t work, what would she do and where would she go?

  Strong arms caught her about the waist and she struggled for freedom until she heard the familiar voice. “Collette, it’s me.”

  She ceased fighting but kept her head averted, not wanting him to see the tears in her eyes. She’d forgotten he waited for her below. She’d only wanted to get away.

  “What happened?”

  She shook her head, her throat too choked for words.

  “Did he hurt you? Touch you?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  His arms tensed and then he released her. “We can’t stay here without attracting attention. You can tell me more later.” Hand on the small of her back, he guided her around a corner.

  And they both stumbled into a girl carrying a bundle of flowers. The girl let out a screech and all the flowers scattered. Roses, lilies, daisies, and tulips rained down and littered the hard-packed earth.

  “Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” Collette said, bending to collect a bunch of daisies.

  “Who do you think you are?” the flower girl hollered, her Cockney accent so thick Collette could barely understand her. She was a small thing, skinny and scrawny and the size of a twelve-year-old. But she had the voice of a fishwife. “Look wot you done. All me flowers—ruined!”

  “They are not ruined, miss,” Rafe said, his voice low and civil. He swept several roses into his hand. “We’ll help you collect them and you can be on your way.”

  Unfortunately, one of the roses he held out as proof against hardship had a bent stem and the bud flopped over. The flower girl wailed even louder.

  “I’m done for! How could you do this to me? I ain’t done nothing to you.”

  Candles flickered in windows above them, and a few people leaned out and yelled down for them to cease the noise and clear off.

  Collette exchanged a look with Rafe. The last thing they needed was the neighbors’ attention or for the Watch to intervene.

  “Look, miss, there’s no need for all this racket,” Rafe said. “I’ll pay you.”

  Like a wind-up doll, the flower girl stuck out her hand. Rafe reached into his coat and then placed a coin in her hand. She looked down. “A shilling? That’s it? I could have made a pound selling all them flowers.”

  Rafe straightened. “Now, see here. Not only is that patent exaggeration, but our collision was an honest mistake. A shilling is more than fair.”

  “Watch!” the flower girl cried. “Watchman!”

  Collette grabbed Rafe’s arm and squeezed. The Watch would likely not take the flower girl’s side, but that didn’t matter. How would she explain her presence here to the Watch? What if they took her home? What would she tell Lady Ravensgate?

  “Hush!” Rafe commanded. “If you bring the Watch here, I’ll tell him you’re harassing me.” He was not dressed as finely as usual tonight, but his stylish greatcoa
t, shiny boots, and the froth of white linen at his neck proclaimed him a nobleman. Although, with his disheveled hair and the bruise on his cheek, he looked a bit less reputable than usual.

  “Did you hear that?” the flower girl screamed to the buildings around them. Collette hunched her shoulders. “He threatened me. Watchman!”

  Rafe took Collette’s hand. “There’s only one thing to do,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Run!” Rafe yanked her with him, and though Collette’s legs felt as though they couldn’t possibly manage another step, she kept pace with him. Behind them, the flower girl screamed as though being murdered.

  “What now?” Collette panted as the girl’s screams grew farther away.

  “I wish we had run toward Oxford Street. We might have hailed a hackney or ducked into a tavern.”

  “You there!” a new voice called out with authority.

  Collette did not bother to look. She knew it was a watchman, possibly the same one they had encountered earlier. She could not be caught out with Rafe. Lady Ravensgate would surely hear of it, and if the lady couldn’t take Collette into public to spy any longer, she’d be of no use. She had to get back to the town house and play her part for a little while longer, to give her father’s captors time to cross the Channel.

  That was if W. Morgan actually sent the letter.

  “Halt! Halt in the name of the king!”

  Rafe ran faster.

  “Where are we going?” she managed between pants.

  “Brook Street,” he said.

  “Brook Street? What’s on Brook Street?”

  “Residences and you know what that means.”

  “No.”

  “Horses.”

  Wonderful. She would end the night as a horse thief. Between the flower girl, the king’s men, and Rafe Beaumont’s schemes, this night was turning into the longest of her life.

  Thirteen

  But Rafe had no intention of stealing a horse. The thought had never entered his mind. Instead, he turned onto Brook Street, then arrowed back into the mews behind the houses, where the carriage hacks were stabled when the residents of Brook Street were in Town.

  Fortunately, the Season was over and many were not in Town. Some of the mews would be empty. When he and Collette had outrun the watchman—never a doubt in Rafe’s mind they would—he pressed himself against a lamppost and caught his breath. Hand to her rapidly rising chest, she did the same.

  “How do we know which are empty?” she asked after he’d told her his plan.

  It was a good question. “If the family is in Town, the horse will be exercised daily and the grooms will be in and out. The empty mews will likely not have stray pieces of straw outside and will probably be padlocked.”

  “Won’t they all be locked?”

  “Not from the outside. The grooms sleep in the mews with the horses. He wouldn’t be locked in.”

  “Let’s go then, before one of our friends catches up.”

  “Agreed.”

  They passed the first set of mews, Rafe waving her on because he wanted to put as much distance as he could between their pursuers and their hiding spot. Finally, toward the end of the lane, he spotted a door with a large padlock. The dirt that made up the path in front of the doorway looked relatively undisturbed. “This one,” Rafe said. Collette moved closer, watching his back as he examined the padlock. It was sturdy and fastened tight.

  “Can you pick the lock?” she asked.

  He glanced up at her. “What do you think I am? A criminal?”

  She raised her brows in accusation.

  Rafe cleared his throat. “I may have acquired a few skills here and there.” He withdrew a pick about the length of his finger from the inside pocket of his coat.

  “Your lock-picking tools?”

  Rafe shrugged. “One never knows when they will be useful.”

  She gaped at him in disbelief, and he rather liked that she hadn’t expected this of him. She’d find he had more than one hidden talent. He bent low and, mostly by feel and sound, sprang the padlock. Unfortunately, the doors didn’t squeak open as he’d expected.

  “Hell’s teeth! It’s barred from the inside.” Leave it to him to pick the one mews where the owners took extra precautions.

  “Then there must be another entrance.”

  “Undoubtedly, but we don’t have time to search for it. We’ll have to find another way in.” He looked up and spotted windows above the door where the horse and carriage would be brought out. Tack might be kept in a loft above as well as cots for the grooms. The windows had heavy material fastened over them from the inside, but he could kick through it—if he could reach them.

  “There,” he said, pointing to one of the windows.

  Collette looked up. “How will we get inside?”

  He studied the buildings again. These buildings were brick, and between this building and the next, an uneven brick pillar had been erected. The design repeated itself down the length of the row. The pillars served to differentiate the various buildings as well as provide additional support to the structures. “I’ll climb up, hop in the window, then climb down and open the door for you.”

  She looked at him skeptically. “And if someone sees me while you’re inside?”

  “Pray they don’t.” He tested the pillar beside him and placed one foot on the first brick sticking out.

  “Rafe!”

  “Stand in the shadows”—he pulled himself up and felt for another foothold—“and hope for the best.”

  “I hate you,” she muttered.

  “Then this might be your lucky night.” The bricks were old and some had crumbled, which accounted for their unevenness. “If I step wrong, I’ll probably fall and crack my head open.”

  She made a sound he couldn’t quite distinguish as pleased or uncaring, and he pulled himself up again. She was angry with him. He could hardly blame her, but the thugs and the watchman hadn’t been his fault. And they were out here tonight to save her father.

  Well, he didn’t care a damn for her father, but somewhere between Draven’s order to gather information on her and taking her to his bed, he’d come to care for her. He couldn’t leave her to whatever fate Lady Ravensgate and her compatriots had in mind. Rafe might not know exactly who they were, but he knew what they were. No matter what information she gave them, they would never have let her or her father go free.

  The window was within reach, and he pulled himself up and lodged a foot on the ridge that made up the door of the mews. He’d been in and out of his share of windows and was relatively confident here. The canvas covering the window was tacked down tightly, but Rafe managed to punch a section away and slide his shoulders through. It was a tight fit, but he squeezed in, then pulled the rest of the material away. He’d put it back once Collette was inside. He didn’t want a passerby to notice something amiss.

  The room was dark and smelled strongly of horses and dust. His nose itched from the tiny particles of straw he’d stirred up. He scanned the darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust. First, he discerned the shapes of saddles and bridles and tools to repair a carriage. He looked the other way and saw cots and a small table, where the grooms might polish the leather of the tack or mend broken pieces. Beside the table was a long trunk and beside that a ladder down to the first floor.

  Or at least there should have been.

  Rafe leaned down and felt for the ladder, but it was not there. Damn! He couldn’t get down to lift the bar on the door without a ladder. The drop was too far. Rafe looked at the trunk again. He crossed to it, opened the top and lifted out riding whips and strips of leather that might be used for reins. Below that, he found exactly what he was looking for. The rope could be used to lead the horse out of the mews for exercise or grooming when the animal wasn’t needed to pull the conveyance. Rafe went back t
o the window and threw the rope down, tying the other end of it to a hook in the wall.

  “New plan,” he hissed. Collette looked up at him. The rope only reached her shoulders. She might grasp it while he pulled her up, but if she let go, she’d fall. Certain injury and possible death would follow. She needed to have some purchase of her own. “Hold the end of the rope and use the pillar to climb higher. Once you’ve a solid hold, I’ll pull you up,” he called down, keeping his voice low. “If your hands slip, grasp the bricks.”

  She stared at him, the light too poor for him to see the expression on her face. “I am in skirts,” she said finally.

  “I’ll pull you up quickly.”

  “Is there no other way? Why not unbar the door?”

  “No time to argue. Hurry.”

  She muttered something in French and then she put her hand on the pillar, lifted her skirt, and tried to place her foot. Slowly, she began to climb. Rafe alternated between watching her and the end of the street. The Watch would eventually make his way down here. Rafe could only hope he’d gone to find a partner so as not to be walking the streets alone. She climbed higher, level with the rope, and Rafe nodded approval. “Good. Grasp the rope tightly, and I’ll pull.”

  “I’m doing fine, thank you.” She was. Perhaps she hadn’t lied about growing up on a farm. She looked as though she’d climbed before. In fact, even in skirts she seemed more adept at the task than he. Finally, she reached the top of the pillar, but her skirts were too cumbersome to allow her to reach a leg over and balance on the thin ledge above the door. Instead, she wrapped the rope around her hands, then gave him a nod. “Pull me up.”

  He’d been holding the rope all this time, but once her full weight was on it, he had to dig his heels in and tug her up slowly and steadily. When he spotted her head at the window, he paused. “Grasp the casement. I’ll take your hands.”

  “You won’t let go of the rope?”

  He had to loosen his hold on it if he hoped to move to the window and take her hands. “Let me know when you have the window.”

  The rope jerked and the tension eased, then returned. Finally, it eased again. “I have it.”