An Affair Without End

by Candace Camp

  “All right, you little beast.” She pulled up her hood to cover her head and started forward. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to have company on her trek, even if it was only a dog. “But I won’t carry you.”

  As she walked, she became aware of the sound of steps behind her. Pirate, bounding ahead of her to sniff all about and pounce on shadows, did not seem aware of the sound at all. Camellia slipped her hand into her pocket, taking a grip on her pistol. She had not expected trouble to start so soon. The steps were growing nearer.

  She whirled, whipping the pistol up to train on the man behind her. “Stop right there. Why are you following me?”

  The figure froze, then said mildly, “I say, Miss Bascombe, it’s only me.” He took a half step forward out of the shadows and lifted his hat politely.

  “Lord Seyre!” Camellia relaxed in relief, lowering the pistol. “Whatever are you doing here? You scared me half to death!”

  “I’m sorry. Truly, I didn’t want to frighten you. I would have called to you, but, well, I had the feeling you wouldn’t want me trumpeting your name.”

  “No! Thank you. I am glad you didn’t.” She slipped the gun back into her pocket, but regarded him somewhat suspiciously. “Why are you here? Why were you following me?”

  “Oh, well.” He paused and glanced about. “I was, um, just walking by.”

  Camellia raised an eyebrow. “You aren’t a very good liar. You expect me to believe that you just happened to be walking by right then? Were you spying on me?”

  “No!” Even in the dim light, she could see the blush that spread across his cheeks. “It isn’t so odd, really. We don’t live far apart. I frequently walk along this street.” When she continued to stare at him skeptically, Seyre went on, “And when I saw you sneaking out, I—”

  “I wasn’t sneaking,” Camellia protested.

  “Of course not. When I saw you, um, walking the dog . . .” Seyre came closer. “I thought you might enjoy some company.”

  Camellia’s mouth tightened in frustration. She would, in fact, appreciate the company, especially his. But she had no desire for him to learn what she was doing. “Actually, I would prefer to be alone. It is just a little walk, really, and I won’t be gone long.”

  The corner of his mouth twisted, and he looked decidedly uncomfortable. Camellia could not help but think that he also looked rather adorable, which, she knew, was excessively foolish, but there was simply no getting around it. She wondered if all the girls who sought him out in their mad pursuit of his title even realized how good-looking he was in his own sweetly shy way.

  “The thing is, I just can’t,” he told her. “I know you probably wish me at the devil, but I cannot in good conscience abandon you here. I realize you don’t wish to tell me where you are going, but if—if you are meeting a man, I have to tell you that he isn’t a gentleman or he would not ask you to meet him this way.”

  “I’m not meeting a man!” Camellia gasped. “I mean, well, I guess I am, but it’s not what you think. And he isn’t a gentleman, that’s something I’m certain of.”

  “Must you meet him, then?” Seyre asked carefully.

  Camellia sighed. “Yes. I really must. I know it isn’t proper for me to be walking about the city alone at night like this.”

  “Well, no, I suppose not, but that’s not the problem. The thing is, London is dangerous for a woman alone at night, and I don’t think your dog would be much protection.” He cast a doubtful glance at Pirate, who was standing and regarding them both with doggy good humor, his rear end wiggling in anticipation.

  Camellia chuckled. “You haven’t seen Pirate in action.” She sobered and said, “And, remember, I have my pistol.” She leaned down and raised her skirts enough to show him the knife in its scabbard strapped to her calf just above her ankle. “As well as this.”

  “My.” He bent down. “What a cunning device.” He straightened. “Perhaps I could walk along with you then, and you could protect me.”

  Camellia could not help but laugh. She turned and started on, and Lord Seyre fell in beside her.

  “I think you’re supposed to tell me how very unladylike my behavior is,” she told him.

  “Am I? But I really have no desire to.”

  “You are a very different sort of man, Lord Seyre.”

  “So I have been told. But perhaps you could call me Gregory—I mean, now that you’ve threatened me with a pistol, it seems that you could use my given name.”

  “All right. Gregory. And I am Camellia.”

  “Camellia. It’s a beautiful name. Beautiful flower. I’m rather partial to horticulture, you know.”

  “The man I’m going to see is my stepfather.” Camellia was surprised that she had blurted out that news. But she realized that she wanted very badly to confide in him. The story would end any chance she had with a man as aristocratic as he, of course. But did that really matter? It wasn’t as if someone like him would want to be anything more than a friend to her . . . not that she had any interest in marrying him.

  “Your stepfather! Your stepfather asked you to meet him at night? Alone?”

  “He isn’t the sort to consider what harm might come to me. He is more concerned about harm coming to him.” The whole tale then tumbled out of her. She told him about Cosmo and his base nature, about the dreadful mistake her mother had made in marrying him, trying to protect her daughters. She recounted the criminal activities Cosmo had already engaged in since he came to England and finished with his visit to her a few weeks ago and the threat he had made.

  “The devil!” Seyre exclaimed when she finished. “The man’s a scoundrel! Trying to take advantage of you in that manner. We won’t let him, that’s all. We shall do something about it.”

  “I plan to,” Camellia told him grimly.

  “Do you plan to shoot him?” he asked in a tone of mild inquiry.

  Camellia found herself chuckling again. “You don’t sound disapproving.”

  “I imagine he deserves it. But it might cause a bit of a scandal.”

  “I don’t plan to shoot him, however much I would like to. The gun is just for protection. I’m going to offer Cosmo all my money and try to convince him to take it and leave London. He sounded as though someone was threatening him, so perhaps he might be willing to run away if I give him the money to do so.”

  She reached into the other pocket of her cloak and pulled out the small bag. Opening it, she showed him the contents: coins and paper money, as well as a pair of gold earrings and a cameo necklace.

  “The earl has given me a generous allowance every month, and I haven’t spent much of it. Unfortunately, I haven’t much jewelry.” She glanced up at him. “It probably doesn’t seem like much to you, but I think Cosmo might find it enough. It isn’t the Stewkesbury jewels, of course, but it’s much easier to use.”

  “That’s true.” Gregory felt in his pockets and pulled out some bills. “I’m afraid I haven’t much cash with me.” He stuffed most of the bills into the bag. “I’ll just hold this back as I think it might behoove us to find a carriage if this place is very far. Oh.” He snapped his fingers and reached up to pull the stickpin from his neckcloth. A dark red jewel in a setting of gold gleamed at the end of the pin. He tossed that in with the money.

  “Gregory!” Camellia stared at him, shocked. “No, you mustn’t! I cannot ask that of you.”

  “Oh, no.” He looked embarrassed. “It’s nothing. A mere trifle, really. Thing is, I have quite a bit of blunt, actually, and I rarely buy anything but books. Papa and Vivian have quite given up on me. You’d be doing me a favor to take it.”

  Camellia chuckled. “I am beginning to believe that you are a complete hand.”

  “Do you think so?” He grinned back at her. “I don’t believe anyone has ever accused me of that.”

  “Then they clearly have not been paying attention.”

  They walked on, talking agreeably. The evening, Camellia thought, was turning out to be astonishingly pleasant. S
he showed Gregory the address Cosmo had written down for her. His eyebrows rose, and he declared firmly that they really should take a carriage. He caught the next one that came by, and the driver agreed to take them, though his manner was reluctant and he added decisively that he would not carry them clear to the door.

  “No place fer a lady,” he told Gregory, nodding toward Camellia’s hooded figure. “Ner fer a gennulman, either.” His gaze paused on Pirate, and he fell silent, merely shaking his head.

  The coach let them down a few blocks from their destination, and they started forward once again on foot. It was a narrow street, lit only infrequently with streetlamps. The buildings on either side were dark, with few and narrow windows, and they loomed over the street. Pirate, who had been napping in the carriage, seemed disinclined to walk now, so Gregory picked him up and tucked him under his arm. They did not speak as they walked; the atmosphere of the street did not encourage talk.

  A man emerged from one of the buildings ahead and started toward them. His hat was pulled low over his head, and he crossed the street before he reached them and continued on the other side. Camellia kept her hand in her cloak pocket, firmly wrapped around the butt of the pistol. They walked past the door they sought the first time, only realizing a few doors down that they had missed the number. They circled back, searching for numbers, but could find none. Counting back, Gregory surmised that they had reached the door they wanted and opened it.

  “I think,” he told Camellia in a low voice, “that I must break the rules of courtesy and enter first.”

  Camellia peered past him through the doorway. A dark, narrow hallway stretched away in front of them, and to their left was a similarly dark staircase. The air was thick with the sour smell of garbage and other, even fouler odors. Her heart quailed a little at stepping into the dank, dark place, but she shook her head firmly.

  “I’m the one with a pistol,” she reminded him, drawing out the weapon.

  “I don’t suppose you have another one?”

  She shook her head but bent down and pulled her knife from its scabbard and handed it to him. They looked at each other, then, by some sort of silent agreement, they started up the staircase side by side. Gregory set down Pirate, and the little animal bounded up the steps in front of them. Halfway down the hall, one of the doors stood partly open, a low light issuing from it. Pirate stopped in front of the door and stretched his head forward, not moving his body. A long, low growl came out of him, and the short hair at the ruff of his neck stood up.

  Gregory clutched the knife handle more tightly, moving on tiptoe after the dog. Camellia kept pace beside him. Gregory stretched out his hand, cautiously pushing the door open. The room inside was small and contained little in the way of furniture. A small, three-drawer chest had been knocked over so that it tilted crazily against the narrow bed, and the items that had been atop it were scattered on the floor. A chair lay on its back on the floor. A candle sputtered on the floor in a puddle of wax.

  But none of these things drew their eyes. All either Camellia or Gregory could look at was the still, slight form of a man lying on the floor, the side of his face covered in blood.

  “Cosmo!”

  Chapter 19

  Camellia’s stomach rolled. She had seen blood before, and injured men. At times at their tavern customers had gotten into fights, and they had frequently wound up bloodied. But something about the way her stepfather lay on the floor, utterly still, his head a bloody mess, told her this was worse than anything else she had seen.

  She pressed her hand to her stomach to try to still the queasiness there. “Is he—is he dead?”

  Gregory entered the room, carefully stepping over and around the broken and spilled objects. Reaching down, he picked up one end of the candle, leaving a charred spot in the floor. Holding up the candle, he squatted beside the body and felt for a pulse in Cosmo’s scrawny neck. “Yes, I fear he is dead.”

  Pirate followed Gregory into the room, sniffing at everything he found. Gregory scooped him up and stood for a moment, looking down at the man. Camellia walked over to join him. She felt faintly ill and more than a little strange, almost as if she were disconnected from her own body, but she made a determined effort to pull herself together and act rationally.

  “I suppose that is what killed him.” She pointed to a thick, round metal candleholder that lay a couple of feet from the body, coated with gore.

  Gregory nodded and turned to her. “There is nothing we can do here. We should leave and contact a magistrate. Hire a Runner if you wish to find out who did it.”

  “Yes, I want to. I have no love for the man, but no one should die like that.” She walked back to the door, followed by Gregory. He stopped and handed Pirate to Camellia, then pinched out the candle he held and laid it on the floor, closing the door behind him.

  They started down the stairs, moving carefully in the dim light. The darkness around them felt oppressive, almost as if it were a tangible thing, weighing them down. It seemed as if a weight had been lifted from them when they stepped back into the street.

  “Do you think—that man we passed—he could have been the killer!” Camellia said, speaking the thought that had been churning in her brain from almost the time they spotted the body.

  Gregory nodded. “I’m not sure what door he came out of.”

  He cast a look up and down the street. The narrow lane had looked dangerous before, but it seemed far more so now, the doorways pools of shadow, the buildings pressing in on the street. Grasping Camellia’s arm, he picked up their pace, all the while glancing carefully around them.

  They reached an intersection, and as they started to cross it, they saw two men walking toward them down the side street. Pirate began to struggle in Camellia’s arms. Startled, she reached to wrap her other hand around his collar, but he leapt nimbly from her arms before she could do so.

  “Pirate! No!”

  The dog paid her no heed, just raced straight at the other men.

  Vivian sighed and glanced around the room. It was dark and noisy and filled with the stench of smoke and unwashed bodies. Their adventure this evening had turned out disappointingly so far. They had been here for over an hour and had learned absolutely nothing. She was not sure how they could learn anything here. The dimly lit room was crammed with men, most of whom had been drinking blue ruin for some time now. They were loud, talking and periodically raising their voices in song or in argument. One such argument had ended with the two men going at it with their fists. It had ended fairly quickly when the men had stumbled over the hearth and ended up singeing their arms at the edge of the massive fireplace.

  She and Oliver had just sat here, pretending to drink the vile-tasting gin. Oliver had managed to down most of his, but Vivian had surreptitiously poured hers out onto the floor, where it had dripped through the wide cracks between the wooden planks. No one had spoken to them aside from a serving wench, and though nearly all of the customers looked capable of almost any villainy, there was no way to ascertain if one of them was a jewel thief. Oliver had finally gone over to talk to the barkeep, and after a few coins crossed his palm, he had nodded his head toward a table in the corner. Oliver had then made his way to the table and sat down with the three men there. Vivian watched him curiously and wished she had gone with him. However, she knew he was right; it would not take much to see through her disguise, and it was better that she stayed here in the shadowy reaches of the tavern.

  As she watched, Oliver rose and walked back to her. Dropping down on the stool beside her, he said in a low voice, “The barkeep pointed out that fellow over there as knowing all the news around this area. He was reluctant to tell me any of it, of course, but a bit of money opened his mouth finally. He says that the slender chap seated at the bar, the one at this end—”

  Vivian glanced over. “Blond-haired?”

  “That is he. He is rumored to be making a good bit of money for himself these days. Spending it freely, too. Was never that good as a
thief, my source told me, but he’s large and intimidating, and apparently he’s gathered a number of followers who keep him in plenty of brass.”

  “You think he’s the ringleader?”

  Oliver shrugged. “It certainly seems a possibility.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  Oliver tossed her an amused glance. “I assumed you would have a plan of action.”

  She smiled. “I do. He’s unlikely to tell us anything freely, so it would take either force or money, and I imagine either of them would do better outside the tavern. So let’s watch and follow him when he leaves.”

  Oliver nodded. “My thoughts exactly.” He studied her for a moment, then leaned over to say, “Does it not worry you at all? The possible danger?”

  Vivian smiled up at him. “I know I’m safe with you.”

  He looked startled, then pleased, but his face quickly turned serious. “I will do my best to keep you so. Vivian . . .”

  “Oh, look.” She had caught a movement out of the corner of her eye, and she straightened. “He’s leaving now.”

  The man they sought had slid off his stool at the bar and was weaving his way through the crowd. Oliver stood up and unobtrusively followed, with Vivian on his heels. By the time the man reached the door, they were only a few steps behind, and in the empty street outside, they quickly closed the gap.

  “Excuse me!” Oliver’s voice was not loud, but it was sharp and loaded with authority.

  The man in front of them turned around. He was a good two inches taller than Oliver and a stone heavier. His eyes flickered over the two of them assessingly. Obviously dismissing them as threats, he shrugged and started to turn away again.

  “I have a few questions for you,” Oliver said quickly, and again the firm tone of authority seemed to have an effect on the other man.