by Deb Marlowe
When Letty had perched on the edge of her chair and settled her stare down into her lap, Callie sat across from her. Carefully, she asked, “Are you on the Love List, Letty?”
Startled, the girl looked up. Wearing a mutinous frown, she shook her head.
Hestia looked thoughtful. “Does Hatch disapprove of the List?”
The question surprised the girl. Her expression grew even more rebellious. “No.”
“Hatch’s other girls are included, then?” Callie prodded gently.
Letty nodded, her face a study of resentment. It quickly transformed to anger. “It’s not like that, so don’t be lookin’ down on me, Callie Grant. Hatch has bigger plans for me. Important plans.” She glared about at them all. “You’re not the only one with fancy friends, these days.”
Brynne exchanged a look with Aldmere. He glanced at Hestia then, a question apparent in his eye. Hestia nodded permission and he leaned forward in his seat to engage Letty directly.
“I was wondering if you might have met my brother?”
Letty only looked confused.
The duke smiled. “Forgive me, we haven’t been introduced, have we? I’m the Duke of Aldmere. My family name is Russell.”
Recognition, and then wariness leaped into her expression.
“My brother is Lord Truitt Russell. Perhaps you’ve met him?”
“No. I know who he is, but I’ve not met the bloke.” She tossed her head defensively. “I’m not to be on the List, as you heard.”
“I did hear. And it’s easy to believe that you were indeed meant for important things, as you’ve also said.” He smiled.
She blinked.
“I’d like to hear more about your plans. Can you be more specific about what your ah . . . friend has in store for you?”
The girl was definitely growing more nervous. “No. That is, not yet.”
“Why not?” he asked gently. Brynne was impressed with his patience.
“I don’t know anything. Not yet.”
His brow lowered along with his tone. “Might those plans have something to do with the fancy friends your Hatch has made?”
Letty shot to her feet. “I’m sure I don’t know. I’d best be going now.”
“Oh, my dear,” Hestia sighed. “That would not be wise. Do sit down again.” She truly did look sorrowful as she ran an eye over the girl. “I’m sorry, Letty, but we already know about the List and what it says—about me and about all the girls staying here.”
Panic flared Letty’s eyes wide.
Brynne leaned in. “You understand, I see. We are not supposed to know. It doesn’t matter that we found out through other sources. Hatch will believe that you gave us the information.”
Gaping between the two of them, the girl let out a low moan.
“We all know what Hatch’s temper is. You can’t go there. Indeed, you’d do best to stay tucked away here, for at least the next few days. Unless you’ve a way out of London entirely?” Hestia asked.
Letty shook her head. “You’ve ruined everything,” she whispered. Silent tears began to run down her cheeks.
For the first time, Callie’s voice rang sharp. “We can keep you safe, Letty, and we will. But you must tell us what you know of Lord Truitt’s disappearance.”
The girl gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth. Brynne could feel the fear she emanated from several feet away.
Callie crossed and knelt before her. “We’ll have the truth, Letty.”
Letty shook her head. “I don’t know! I knew Hatch wanted him, but I didn’t know he’d been caught.” She looked wildly at Aldmere. “I swear!”
“Why did Hatch want Tru?” the duke demanded.
Her face grew hard.
Aldmere stood. “For his friends? Who are they?”
“I don’t know.” The duke’s face darkened and she grew fierce again. “I don’t! Hatch wouldn’t tell me because I was living here. And now it’s too late!” She broke into a torrent of harsh sobs.
“All right, Letty.” Callie got to her feet. She crossed to the door once again and asked a passing girl to fetch Isaac again. “Take a few minutes. Calm yourself and collect your thoughts. Then return here. We will not treat you with the same callous disdain with which you thought to visit on us, but we will require you to show the duke to Hatch’s den. Don’t go in, for heaven’s sake. Don’t even come too close, just lead him to the vicinity and come straight back.”
When resistance swept over the girl’s face once more, Hestia only shook her head. “It’s too late for you my dear,” she said from her chair. “You’ve been defiant in the past.” Her voice lowered. “You were half dead the last time, Letty. If Hatch isn’t stopped, you’ll have little choice except to leave Town.” She regarded the girl steadily. “Is that what you want?”
Brynne knew her answer before she saw the shake of her head. Because she knew what it was to face a new life with no one left to you. Just like her, Letty was truly left with only one choice. Feeling numb, she watched her depart.
“You heard the girl—the bastard’s taken Tru,” Aldmere said, low and fierce. “I didn’t really believe it until I saw it in her face.”
Callie nodded and leaned against the closed door. Lips pursed, she looked first to Hestia and then met Brynne’s gaze. “You’ll have to move quickly. We have a slight advantage. We know what we are not supposed to—and Marstoke is not yet aware of it. It’s little enough, but we should make use of it.” She pushed away from the door.
“Wait,” the duke objected.
Hestia spoke up. “We must not forget that it looks as if Marstoke is going to a great deal of trouble to keep his name separate from the Love List. In fact, I shouldn’t wonder if Hatch is likely in charge of keeping that secret.”
Brynne looked up. “Then the last thing Hatch will wish is for Marstoke to know the secret is out.”
“Is it a secret worth killing for, that’s the question?” Like smoke, Hestia’s question hung heavy with ferocity in the air.
“Hold now,” Aldmere insisted. “All of your points are correct, ladies, except one. I’m going alone. There’s no need to involve Miss Wilmott further.”
Shocked, Brynne objected. “I beg your pardon, but there is every reason!” She stood and pushed back against a rise of the old feeling of helplessness and its accompanying panic.
The glance that Aldmere rested on Brynne lasted only a second and felt like a warning. “I don’t wish to have to worry for your safety. I will, of course, report back to you.”
“You may pierce me with the ducal glare as many times as you like, but it won’t change a thing.” Her heart pounded, but she ruthlessly ordered it to stop. Yes, he was large and masculine and powerful. But he was also domineering, and far too inclined to take charge. And insane, if he thought to cut her off from fighting her own battles. “Your stake in this is far more serious, of course, but ours is far from negligible. And mine is particularly sharp. The marquess has already ruined me once. Now that I’ve finally glimpsed a new future, I won’t let him steal it away, as well.”
Fingers of fear reached for her, trying to entrap her with impotence and despair. She stood tall, refusing to acknowledge them. Rigid, she faced Aldmere with stiff determination.
He narrowed his eyes in Hestia’s direction. “You just spent considerable energy convincing me that this could be deeper and more dangerous than I thought. And yet you wish to send this girl into the middle of it?”
“She’s already in the middle of it,” Hestia said patiently. “And it’s Marstoke who has put her there.” Her mouth quirked. “And believe me, I would be the very last to deny a woman so abused by the marquess her chance at revenge.”
Aldmere’s gaze snapped back to Brynne’s. Unrelenting, they stared at each other while tension snapped and sparked in the very air between them. “A temporary alliance only, then,” he said at last. “Just until we find my brother.”
Temper still flaring, Brynne lifted her chin. Surely it was a fine t
hing, his worry for his brother. Admirable. It would be a point in his favor, in fact, did he not appear to have an aversion to worrying about anyone else, as well. And did it not smack of a ruthless and dogged pursuit of his own goals. A tad too close to her father’s methods for her comfort. And not too far from Marstoke’s practices, either.
Still, concern was a good look for him, all flashing eyes and broad, tense shoulders. And that was exactly what she had no business worrying about.
“Your brother, of course,” she said to him, lifting one scornful brow, “but we’ll also be looking for any other means of stopping the publication of this List.”
“Just be careful, Brynne,” Callie warned. “Your name on that Love List could be the end of your hopes and plans. But so could any other sort of scandal. It won’t do to trade one for the other.”
“I doubt it would do me any good, either,” Aldmere interjected with irony.
Sardonic man. Heavens above, but she wished she could deal with Marstoke on her own. Well, she hadn’t let the marquess bully her, nor would she allow the duke. “Don’t worry, your Grace,” Brynne assured him with only a taste of scorn. “I’ll do my best to protect your reputation.”
“If you did, you’d be the first young lady of marriageable age to try.” His expression had gone quite empty once again. “Do what you must, Miss Wright, to see your enterprise safe. Miss Wilmott and I will find Tru. And then we’ll be done.”
And Brynne, who mere weeks ago had vowed never again to place herself at the mercy of a man’s objective, stood and prepared to do just that. Except that this time she would get something out of it as well. She was willing to use the duke’s power and influence to solve this thorny problem, but then she would move on, and ahead with her plans. She would be done with Aldmere—and with all self-absorbed males.
Six
I saw him for the first time at the Pump Rooms. Captain Wilson. He stood at the inner windows, bathed in the most fascinating light. Sunshine came from above to pick out gold threads in his hair while the baths reflected a fluid radiance from below. He had abandoned his naval uniform, though his coat had a decided military flair. He was the most exotically masculine man I had ever seen. I was entranced . . .
—from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright
Marstoke takes a swing and many people reel from the blow. His own words echoed through Aldmere even as he strode through quickly deteriorating streets. Truth gave them teeth and right now they were gnawing through his gut. This List was meant to destroy both Brynne Wilmott and Hestia Wright. But what if Tru was to be thrown in as an aside?
He supposed that the likelihood of such a thing came down to the question of just what Truitt had done to get himself in Marstoke’s debt in the first place. The marquess had spoken as if it had been a wager or a gaming debt, but Aldmere remembered his first, gut instinct that it might have something to do with the kidnapped Russian girl that rumor said Tru had rescued.
But that begged the question; what could Marstoke have to do with a Russian servant girl?
A snarling pair of dogs raced past and ripped him from his contemplation and back to the present. A mistake to let his mind wander here. He glanced over at Brynne Wilmott. A mistake, too, to bring her along on this encounter. They’d left his carriage behind blocks ago, according to Letty’s direction, in a neighborhood with a desperate grip on respectability. The street they traversed now had let that pretense slip away long ago. Ramshackle shops and worn houses, intact if not respectable, marched next to abandoned buildings, their windows gaping or boarded over in endless patterns.
He didn’t like it—and he liked it less with each step they took.
“Tell me about what is ahead,” he said to Letty. “Describe the route that we’re to take.” The girl had begun to look increasingly nervous. He wanted the particulars fixed in his head in case she decided to bolt.
She answered his questions, though, painting a picture of the lanes and landmarks ahead, her pretty face marred with the same sour expression of reluctance she’d worn since they left Craven Street.
“I don’t know why I bother,” she said under her breath when she’d finished.
Miss Wilmott let loose a heavy sigh of exasperation. “Just say what you mean, Letty.”
“Well, I will then!” Letty returned. “You don’t neither of you know what you are getting yourselves into. Miss Hestia, now she has safe passage. She can go anywhere in the city without bother. But the pair of you? You’re like babes in the woods,” she said with a roll of her eyes.
Aldmere nodded and looked about them. “We do look out of place.”
If Letty had been playing a part on stage, she would have smacked her hand against her head for effect. As it was, she only smirked. “You could say that.” She shook her head. “Look at you both,” she gestured. “And then look around. You don’t belong here—and strangers are not tolerated.” Her mouth quirked. “You could ask your brother about that—he had a hard enough time in these parts, until he proved himself.”
“Then we’ll prove ourselves, as well,” Miss Wilmott said defiantly.
Letty laughed. “You won’t have a chance.” She lifted her chin in his direction. “You look like a duke and she looks like the hired governess. Someone will mark you at any second. You’ll never make it as far as the den.”
He cursed under his breath.
“I’ll tell you how it will happen,” Letty smirked at him. “Some ragtag fellow is going to stumble into you in a matter of minutes.” She gestured toward his waistcoat. “He’ll slip a hand in your pocket and a knife in your belly at the same time. Then as you lie bleeding in the ditch, they’ll be draggin’ Miss Brynne here to the nearest abbess.”
Damn it all. He’d let his worry for Tru send him off half cocked. He cast a glance at Brynne Wilmott and cursed again. Letty could take care of herself, he knew, but for the first time in a long time he’d taken on a direct, personal burden and the worry for someone else’s welfare. He should have gone alone. Insisted on it, or just walked out of Hestia Wright’s house. But he hadn’t truly tried—and that was the most disturbing part of this business.
That, and the fact that the girl’s presence was only going to make this more difficult, in every way. He’d have to think harder, plan smarter and keep her safety in the forefront of his mind—when all he should be concentrating on was his brother.
Frustration gnawed at him. He’d let the girl muddle his thinking. He hadn’t been so careless in nearly fifteen years. This time he had to be damned sure that she didn’t pay the price. She might be a young idealist headed for certain heartbreak, but it sure as hell was not going to hit her on his watch.
His fists clenched. He looked down at his white linen and shining Hessians, then spent longer than he needed running an assessing eye over Brynne Wilmott’s small frame and her perfectly proportioned curves, covered in demure, fitted wool.
It took an expenditure of will, but he tore his gaze from her and cast about, thinking hard. Nothing here. Barking an order, he stalked ahead to the next intersection. And felt the tension in his shoulders ease just a bit. There. Just a block down the third street, exactly what they needed.
“What is it?” Miss Wilmott asked as the women caught him up. “Are you looking for something, your Grace?”
“Yes. A way to even the odds, a bit. And there it is.”
“Where?” she asked, turning.
“The second-hand shop,” he said, pointing. “The perfect spot to forge a couple of new identities.”
* * *
Brynne entered the shop just ahead of the duke. The bell tinkling merrily overhead felt like an affront, it was so contrary to her current state—namely, unnerved by Letty’s dire predictions and annoyed by the girl’s continuous scowl and obvious disapproval. You don’t belong here. Letty’s words of warning had become an accusation bouncing off the corners of her mind. She belonged nowhere. Did the wretched girl think that she needed reminding? She didn’t. Tha
t had been a large part of the despair that had laid her low after she arrived in Craven Street—and now that she’d finally concocted a plan, a way to regain her pride and be of use, the damned Love List had come along to wreck it.
Anger and frustration threatened to swamp her again—until she stepped far enough inside to register her surroundings. Then she stopped in her tracks, gaping in wonder.
She’d had a doll once, as a child. Back when her mother had been alive and her place in the world had never been questioned. The porcelain beauty had come with the most amazing assortment of old fashioned clothes—a small trunk full of lovely wide gowns of rich brocade and elaborate lace. The doll, named Octavia, had become a constant companion for a time and her mother had lovingly sewn them both a selection of matching light muslin gowns. As a result, Octavia’s box had been an overstuffed, constantly overflowing riot of many colors and fabrics and trims.
It felt as if someone had picked her up by the scruff of the neck and set her down in that trunk. “Good heavens,” she breathed. The place was silent, devoid of life, but bursting with every sort of clothing imaginable, piled on tables, hanging from racks and lining shelves.
Her eye was drawn at once to a corner made bright with colorful gowns of fine fabric and intricate embroidery. Resolutely, she turned away, irritated once again at the reminder of the choices that had been thrust onto her. She took a step toward a table filled with likelier garments—and faltered.
Aldmere’s gaze lay upon her. She didn’t have to turn to verify the knowledge. She felt the weight of his stare, as real and tactile as a touch. It traced a path over her, raising a line of prickled skin, unseen under the light kerseymere of her gown, and she found herself unnerved in a totally new fashion.
Distracted, she lifted the garment closest to hand. A peasant blouse, made to fall off the shoulder with just the loosening of a string. In a haze, she traced the adjustable neckline and thought that if she were truly the sort to wear such a thing, she would right now give the duke something to look at. She’d be unobtrusively untying her knots, shrugging her shoulders and taunting him with the bare expanse of her skin.
