At first Meg had been annoyed that Kincaid had kept her in a whorehouse when he had a perfectly good five-room apartment at a fashionable crossroads in London, but she understood his reasoning. She understood his need to slowly reveal to her his life as it truly was.
She banged a second nail into the wall. "I . . . don't . . . understand . . . why . . . we . . . can't leave things as they are." She peered down at him from her perch on the chair. "The idea of being kept is deliciously wicked. I rather like being the highwayman's woman."
"Hush. The walls are thin, sweet. I'm James Kincaid to this part of town and it's important that you remember that—unless you want to end up in Newgate again."
She pointed toward the bed. "Could you bring the mirror, there?"
He went to retrieve it, obviously exasperated. "I can do this for you, Meg."
She took the heavy gilded oval mirror from his hands. "I can do it myself." She had bought the mirror at the Royal Exchange, an inside market where anything from bolts of cloth to rare birds in cages could be purchased. At Rutledge everything was brought in, she'd never had a chance to make any choices on her own. It had been an exciting outing for Meg, one of her first as James Kincaid's woman.
She hung the mirror on the nails. "Straight?"
"I don't know." He stepped back a couple of feet. "Meg, you've managed to change the subject again. To the left a tad."
"Here?"
He nodded. "Perfect." He grabbed her hand. "Now get off the damned chair before you trip on your petticoats and break your neck."
She allowed him to help her off the chair, then buzzed away, busying herself tidying the very disorderly apartment he'd brought her to. "Why change our relationship when there's nothing wrong with it? I think we'd just be asking for trouble neither of us would welcome."
He leaned against the doorjamb, watching her as she picked up dirty clothing and soiled boots from the needlework carpet. "This isn't about me, it's about you. So don't turn it around. Now look, from what little you've said, I can gather your husband was a bastard, may he rot in hell. But that doesn't make me a bastard."
She dropped his soiled clothing into a pile on the end of the bed. It was one of her favorite pieces of furniture in the apartment with its curtains in bronze silk, trimmed with lace and lined with taffeta. "These need to be cleaned. I want to be one of Saity's first customers. If she's going to make it as a laundress we have to help her." She deposited his boots on the hearth to be cleaned and polished later. "And these need to go to the shoeshine."
"Meg. Damn it. Will you stop a minute? Stop and listen to me?"
"I want the apartments to look nice for your friends when they come to sup tonight. It's bad enough having everyone know I'm your whore." She turned to him, her arm filled with two of Kincaid's discarded coats and a pair of breeches that needed mending. Her face was practically concealed by the mountain of clothing. "I don't want them to think I'm untidy, as well."
"You're not my whore. You could be my wife if you'd have me."
She spun around, holding up one of his heeled shoes. "Do you know where the match to this is? I've looked everywhere and I can't find it. I don't understand how a man can lose a shoe in this room."
Kincaid strode across the room and took the clothing and the shoe from her arms. He dropped them onto the floor beside them. "Could I have your attention for just one moment, Miss House Maid?"
Meg sighed, blowing air through the wispy hair that had escaped her bone hair pins to fall over her forehead. She forced herself to look at him. "I'm avoiding the conversation," she said softly, "because I don't want to talk about it. I want to leave our relationship as it is. A good one."
He took her hand. "I'm offering to marry you. To care for you. To give our children a name. Marriage would only make our relationship better. Why must you be so obstinate?"
Unexpected tears welled in her eyes and she was unable to meet his gaze. "Because I'm afraid, Kincaid."
He was silent for a moment, then brought her hand to his lips. "And you think I'm not?"
She smiled, turning her head to look into his dark brown eyes that at this moment were speckled with green. "I can't say yes right now. Give me some time. I want to marry you, I'm just scared. Scared my past will catch up with me and ruin everything. Let's wait a few weeks, a few months, and then we'll talk of it again."
Kincaid drew her into his arms, easing her head onto his shoulder. "I'm just petrified I'm going to lose you. I have to finish the list Meg, but when that matter is closed I'll be ready for a new life. I want to be certain you'll still be here when that time comes."
"I told you I wouldn't leave you without you knowing it, should I decide to go." She lifted up on her toes to kiss him. "And I can honestly tell you that with each passing day I'm more inclined to stay." She rubbed the tip of his nose with hers.
"And more inclined to marry me?"
There was a hasty knock on the open bedchamber door and Monti sauntered in, carrying a sheet of print in his hand.
"Thanks for the warning," Kincaid called sarcastically.
Monti ignored his remark. "Who's getting married? Ah, Meg, so you told our friend here our little secret? Can I have the banns cried for you and me today, my love?"
Meg wrinkled her nose, stepping out of Kincaid's embrace. "I couldn't bear to tell him he's been cuckolded. You'll have to break the sorrowful news to him yourself, my love." She blew Monti a kiss off her hand. Then she picked up the clothing Kincaid had dropped on the floor and went back to her task of straightening the room.
"She's turned me down again, Monti." Kincaid raised his hands lamely, only half joking.
"Tsk, tsk." Monti perched himself on the arm of a damask-covered chair near the cold hearth. "I apologize, my friend, we just didn't know how to tell you." Then he waved the piece of parchment he carried. "Look what I picked up at the 'Change this morning when I was buying myself a pair of new stockings."
"Did you find the stockings you were looking for?" Meg was making a separate pile for mending. The new laundry shop Saity opened would also repair clothing.
"Oh, a lovely magenta pair, to go with my salmon coat." Monti bent his wrist like one of the court dandies he imitated so well. "You know, the one with the silver garnitures."
Meg could only laugh at the thought of the horrific ensemble Monti was fashioning. "Will you wear it tonight to our supper?"
"Just for you, my love."
Kincaid groaned. "Enough prattle, you two." He took a seat in the chair beside Monti's. A small writing table separated them. "You barged into my private sleeping chamber for a reason, my friend?"
"Oh, yes." Monti handed the sheet of paper over.
"What is it? Another letter from the widow?" Meg stacked several dirty dishes that had come from a local cook shop. From the look of the green mold on them, she surmised they had to have been here for months. "I thought Augers had turned the tavern over to her, wine cellar and all."
Kincaid scanned the page. She heard him chuckle.
With a smile of curiosity, she came to him. "What is it?"
Kincaid glanced up. "James's latest satire. I had heard it was already circulating through the withdrawing rooms of the best households in Londontown."
She raised an eyebrow with interest. "Can I see it?"
"It's not very good, really."
"Not good? Bloody hell, you've a droll wit." Monti directed his next comment to Meg. "Buckingham's are nothing compared to the writings of Sir James. Everyone at Court says so. The duke is insanely jealous."
"Sir James?"
"That's how he signs his satires. Of course everyone knows it's James Kincaid."
Now Meg was truly intrigued. "Oh, let me see it." When Kincaid didn't offer the paper, she tried to grab it.
Kincaid held the satire just out of her reach. "If you don't care for it, my manhood will be crushed."
She laughed "Don't be silly. Monti's already crushed your manhood this morning by telling you we're secretly lover
s." She grabbed for the paper again. "Now pass it here or I shall have to go to the 'Change and ask Buckingham for a copy myself."
Kincaid sighed, lowering the paper to his lap. "If I show it to you, will you show me one of yours? You told me you write, but I've not seen a splatter of ink yet."
Meg nibbled on her lower lip in indecision. She wanted to read what Kincaid had written. Her curiosity was overwhelming. But she wasn't sure how much of herself she was willing to give to him yet. And her writing was surely a part of her. "Oh, all right," she finally conceded. "But there'll be no jokes at the dining table tonight should you find my words shallow and poorly written."
He offered the satire and Meg snatched it from his hands, backing up for fear he would recapture it.
The moment she scanned the first few lines, her face lit up in a smile of pride. It was good, truly good.
She went to sit on the edge of the bed to read the rest of it. It was a short poem, only six stanzas, that spoke of the treatment of the poor by the rich. It made the ladies and gentlemen of the Court seem trite and without honor.
When she was done, she looked up at Kincaid. "This will certainly set some tongues wagging. You're practically naming some of the men from that list of yours."
"He always does," Monti commented, buffing his nails on his coat hem.
Kincaid shrugged. "Again, it can do no real harm. More foolishness."
Meg folded the sheet of parchment carefully. "It can make people think long and hard about their own lives." She got off the bed to come up behind Kincaid's chair and lower her hands to his shoulders. "And the writing is excellent. I mean that sincerely." She smiled down at him. "I'm impressed by your talent."
"All right. I shared mine." He shook a finger at her. "Now you have to share yours."
"Is that similar to the 'I'll show you mine if you show me yours' game? I was playing that game with a lady just the other night." Monti grinned.
Meg started to laugh. "I cannot believe how you two have corrupted me. Such bawdy talk never went on in my household, I'll warrant you that."
"Not even between you and your husband?" Kincaid's tone was light, but Meg could tell he was searching for understanding of her past. He was sly like that, gaining insight day by day, though not really knowing any particulars.
She gave a derisive snort. "Certainly not between my husband and me. I was his ward first, then his wife. He always treated me like his child. Now his brother," she went back to picking up Kincaid's discarded clothing, "he was a different sort." She shuddered at the thought of Percival. "He was always saying crude things under his breath to me, touching me under the dining table with my husband sitting beside me."
"And your husband allowed it?" Monti scoffed. "I'd have killed the bastard, brother or not."
Meg sighed. "My husband said it was my fault. That I encouraged it with my feminine wiles and I got what I deserved."
"Cur," Kincaid muttered, getting up from his chair, suddenly in a foul mood. "Every time I think about you living with that man," he flexed his fingers as if choking some invisible apparition, "I want to—"
"Kincaid, please don't start. What's done is done. Now let's talk about something cheerful. What shall I order from the cookshop for supper tonight? I want your friends to have a good time."
"Plenty of sack is all that's necessary with that bunch." Monti rose from his chair. "Well, I've business to attend to. I'll see you tonight." He bowed formally to Meg. "Your servant, madame."
Meg blew him another kiss and Monti sauntered out of the room.
"You two have gotten to be very good friends," Kincaid observed when Monti was gone. He busied himself shuffling through some papers on the writing desk.
Meg placed a folded stocking in Kincaid's clothes press. "Does that disturb you? There's never been any impropriety. We just tease each other."
Kincaid turned from what he was doing. "No, sweetheart, it doesn't bother me. I'm glad to see you learn to trust someone else. Friendship is good for a man's soul . . . and a woman's."
She smiled. "I love you, Kincaid," she said, the stockings still in her hands.
"And I you, sweet. Now finish making your piles and we'll take them to Saity. Then we'll stop at an ordinary for a bit of bread and be back in time to meet the dressmaker with your new gown."
"Dressmaker?" She placed his stockings inside and closed the mahogany doors. "I called for no dressmaker."
"No. I did. I thought a woman needed a new gown for her first party."
She came across the room to wrap her arms around his neck and stare into his sparkling eyes. "And how did you get this gown fitted without my knowing? Did the dressmaker come in the night when I was stark naked and asleep in our bed?"
"No. I took the brown taffeta of yours to him. You'd remarked it fit well."
"So that's where that gown went. I thought Saity had taken it to mend the hem."
"Saity was in on it." He smirked, obviously pleased with himself.
Meg tipped back her head, her laughter light. "You are very clever, not only on paper, but in deed."
"Whatever makes you happy." He kissed her lips. "I mean that. I want what you want."
Meg kissed him again and laid her head on his shoulder. How could my life have become so perfect? she wondered. Too perfect. My luck has to run out.
Then she smiled at her own morose thoughts. Heavens, she mused, now I sound like Monti.
"What do you mean he's disappeared without a trace?" The Earl of Rutledge was seated at a small table, tackling an evening meal of blood sausage and pickled eel. "The boy has got to be here somewhere!"
Higgins stood inside the doorway of the earl's bedchamber out of striking distance of his master. "I mean I cannot find him, my lord. I've only been able to glean a few morsels of information."
Rutledge stabbed a succulent piece of eel and popped it into his mouth. "Go on."
The manservant cleared his throat of phlegm. "Your nephew was a mercenary like so many of the dullwits before the king returned. He was wounded when he was serving in the French army. He also did a stint on a privateer's vessel, raiding Parliament's shipping."
The earl tipped his wine glass. "The little pustule!"
Higgins folded his pale white hands patiently. "Then he simply disappeared. I can find no one who actually knows the Honorable James Randall, only of him. I don't know that he ever returned to London. Perhaps he was seized with pleurisy and died, my lord."
"More likely the clap." Rutledge poured himself another glass of Alicantes. "No. He's here. I can smell him. He's here in the city and so is she." He held out the empty wine bottle. "So find him. I'll find her, too."
"I've exhausted my sources, my—"
"Oh, shut up, Higgins, will you? Just stop your whining and follow my charge! Now take this bottle and bring me another."
Higgins snatched the empty wine bottle from his master's hand and backed out of the room. "Yes, my lord."
Rutledge gave an agitated sigh as the door shut. "Damned servants," he muttered.
The door opened again.
"Higgins!"
"A lady to see you, my lord . . ."
Rutledge looked up to see Higgins step aside and Mary Mummford come sailing into his bedchamber in a sea of pink and yellow rustling organza.
He rose from his chair, smiling. "Mary, my dear."
"Percy." She smacked her lips near his cheek.
"I apologize, but you've missed supper."
"Not dessert, I hope," she purred. Then she glanced over her shoulder. "Higgins, that will be all for tonight." She turned her back to Percival to allow him to remove her ermine-edged cloak.
"My lord?" Higgins questioned from the doorway.
"Do as you're told. And close the door. I don't wish to be disturbed again until morning."
"Then you do not want more wine, my lord?"
"Out!" the earl shouted, spraying the air and Higgins with spittle.
The bedchamber door closed and Percival tossed Mary's
cloak onto a chair. He wiped his lips with a damask napkin from the table. "I wasn't expecting you tonight."
She toyed with the silk sash of his dressing robe. "I know, my love." She pouted. "But it's so difficult for me to get away. I come when I can."
"And no one saw you? Not from my household nor yours?"
She tossed her head of glossy black curls. "Of course not. Only that snake of yours, Higgins." She shuddered delicately. "I don't know where you found him, Percy. The man's so repulsive, I vow he gives me the vapors."
"I'm glad you were not seen." Percival retrieved his wine glass from the table. He had intended to turn in early, thinking he had no real appetite for bedsport tonight, but now that Mary was here, perhaps he could rouse himself after all. He reached out and tweaked her breast. "How long can you stay?"
"Long enough to wear you out, old man." She batted her eyelashes, flitting away, leaving a trail of clothing behind her.
The earl stood back for a moment watching Mary disrobe, watching the way the firelight played off the pale skin of her naked buttocks, marred only by a few fading red lines.
He licked his dry lips, grasping the tie of his dressing gown to release it. "So what have you in mind, tonight, my pet?"
She dropped naked onto his bed, spreading her legs, caressing her mound of dark curls playfully. "Oh, I don't know. Something fun. Something different. I'm rather bored with last week's game."
Percival let his robe fall to the floor and immediately his member sprang up, already pulsing in anticipation of what he would do to her.
"Bored are we? Well, let's look in our little chest of toys and see what we can find, shall we?"
Mary rolled over in the silky sheets, laughing that laugh that had amused him at first, but now only annoyed him. "Surprise me, Percy."
Percival reached into the black metal trunk beneath his bed and extracted a pair of leather gloves and a coil of rope. "Oh, I shall, my little strumpet. I shall."
Sixteen
Meg hung onto Kincaid's arm as they wound their way through the street, down toward the river. It was a warm evening in April and it seemed that every man, woman, and child in London from lady or gentleman to beggar had come out to see the water pageant on the Thames. Again and again Meg was jostled by the crowd that seemed to move as one body and smelled of unwashed flesh, heavy perfume, and ale. The air hummed with voices and laughter.
The Highwayman and The Lady (Hidden Identity) Page 17
