Damien glanced at Florence to see if she agreed that Jonah’s ideas sounded ridiculous, but her attention was fixed on her husband.
Damien sighed in exasperation. “So, you think one can get into an exclusive St. James’s club—for I am certain the man belongs only to the best—and sit ourselves down for an ale and watch him?”
Jonah chuckled and shook his head. “For someone who’s roamed about some of the worst places of London, you remain an innocent, my friend. That’s what I like about you.” He folded his arms over his chest and smiled as if enjoying the conversation. “There are ways to obtain information.” He held up a hand before Damien could offer further objections. “Perfectly legitimate ways. First, we find out which clubs he frequents. Then—” he grinned at both of them “—I can take care of this next part. It would just involve moseying on to the back of the club and getting friendly with some of the kitchen staff. All it takes is a waiter—”
Damien broke in. This had gone far enough. “Now, I’ll not have anything illegal—”
“Perfectly legal. No one will be hurt, and no one the wiser. I’ll just offer a little blunt to a waiter who seems disposed to talk.”
Both Damien and his sister drew in their breaths. “A bribe?” she asked.
“I call it payment for some information. Bow Street Runners use this method all the time.”
“What kind of information would you be seeking?” Damien asked in an even tone, liking the turn in the conversation less and less.
Jonah glanced at his fingernails on one hand. “There’s no telling what you might find out about a person. Does he play for high stakes? Does he belong to any other clubs?”
Damien stood staring at him for some moments. His heart balked at invading a person’s privacy in this manner. It seemed a violation. “That would be like listening to gossip, unreliable at best.”
“Not necessarily.” He pointed to his cuff. “I’ll wager these new cuff links your sister gave me—” He glanced quickly at Florence with a smile. “Don’t worry, love, this is how sure I feel about this bet.” He turned back to Damien. “I’ll wager these cuff links that if this gent belongs to some Mayfair club, he also belongs to some not-so-exclusive ones, where it won’t be so hard for me to get in.” He eyed the two of them. “Most men have habits they’d rather keep secret. They have no idea how much a servant or waiter is privy to.”
Damien felt paralyzed. Fear for Miss Phillips’s future warred with distaste for prying into an individual’s life.
As if reading his thoughts, Jonah’s words goaded him. “You have a moral obligation to get this toff’s measure, see if the man is someone you could trust to treat Miss Phillips as he should.”
Damien rubbed a hand across his mouth, not liking the options. He was almost ready to put an end to the notion when Florence spoke up. “I think Jonah is right.”
Damien stared at his sister.
“You look shocked, Damien.” She smoothed down her skirt. “But think about it. What if Miss Phillips is forced to enter into a union with a less-than-savory character? You didn’t hear the fear in her voice.” Her gray eyes looked troubled. “Perhaps it is only maidenly nerves. But what if it is more? Could we live with ourselves, as Jonah said, if we didn’t do anything?”
Lord, what would You have me do? He bowed his head, his hands clasped behind him. Finally, he looked back at the two of them, his eyes coming to rest on Jonah. “Very well. Tell me what to do.”
Chapter Seven
Damien blinked at the contrast between the downstairs tavern and the upstairs room they’d just entered. Here, brass-globed lights were placed at intervals along the tasteful wallpaper. A rich carpet muted the sound of their footsteps as they were led into the plush room.
In its center stood a long table. As they approached it, Damien saw at once that it held a roulette wheel. Men in evening clothes crowded around it, both sitting and standing.
It was already past midnight. Damien had spent the better part of the evening sitting in a hack, waiting for Jonah, who’d already scouted out the better gentleman’s clubs, before directing their driver to this disreputable back-alley pub by Covent Garden.
Jonah, dressed in evening clothes, sauntered to the middle of the room as if he were accustomed to this sort of realm and chose a place to stand near the croupier. Damien noticed that there were no workmen in this room, as in the tavern below. They could as easily have been at a St. James’s club.
Except for the presence of females. Not customers, but serving girls. They were all young and attractive. Damien and Jonah had not been there long when one sidled up to Damien and proffered a tray with pastries. The girl looked fresh and sweet, reminding him for an instant of Miss Phillips, with her golden curls. She had pale green eyes, however, and a very low-cut décolletage.
“No, thank you,” he replied.
She batted her eyelashes at him, with a look that was at once demure and provocative. “If you change your mind, sir, I’m right here. Anything for your pleasure. Some champagne, sir?”
“No, thank you,” he said, indicating his still-full tankard.
“I can take that for you, sir, if you prefer a bit o’ the bubbly.” She managed to sidle alongside him until her arm brushed his.
He felt a profound sadness. Where had this young girl come from? Her future held only degradation.
“Thank you,” he repeated. “I shall let you know if I change my mind.”
He turned to observe the play on the table, tense with the sense of the girl so close to him. She left him at last when he took no more notice of her. Moments later, he saw her directly across from him, trading banter with a portly, middle-aged gentleman. This man took one of the dainty pastries offered him and stuck it in his mouth. His jaws still chewing, he put an arm around the girl’s slim waist and brought her body flush up against his.
Damien felt sickened by the girl’s laughter. At that second, she glanced boldly across at him, challenging him, as if to say if he didn’t want her, there were those who did. Before she moved away from the man, he bent his head and whispered something in her ear, then took a coin from his bulging waistcoat pocket and slipped it in her décolletage. The girl giggled and swatted playfully at his hand. The man squeezed her waist closer before letting her go.
Damien tore his attention away from the tableau and sought Jonah. He’d already placed a chip on the red baize board. They had allotted themselves an amount to spend that night.
The wheel spun around as the men moved their stacks of chips onto the numbers. All talk ceased when the croupier called an end to the bets. The white ball clattered within the outer circle.
The men beside him bumped against him as they edged closer to the table, their focus on the wheel. The ball tumbled into the inner circle and finally came to a stop.
“Seven. Seven wins. Odds. Black pays.” Sighs and murmurs rose around him as the winners raked in the chips.
The betting continued. Damien found his thoughts wandering as he observed the behavior of the people in the room. He prayed for them as he wondered what drove men to stake their money on little black and red slots on a wooden wheel. His heart felt heavy as he wondered about Miss Phillips’s fiancé. Would she be shackled to a gambler? He’d heard about many a fortune being lost by a member of the ton addicted to the steep play at the gaming houses.
The play finally broke up with the arrival of more refreshments. A half-dozen attractive young women mingled with the gentlemen, laughing and offering them libations and food as the men rose from the gaming table.
“That’s him over there, black coat and gold waistcoat,” murmured Jonah, coming to stand near him.
Damien blinked, hardly catching the words, before Jonah moved off, hailing a girl and taking a generous helping of food.
Damien sought the man in question.
Jerome Stokes. The name had been branded in his mind since he’d first read it in the paper.
Damien’s heart sank lower. Stokes was all th
at Damien was not. Tall and powerfully built, his wide shoulders were apparent through the snug fit of his black cutaway; his muscular calves mocked Damien’s peg leg. A pristine cravat hugged a square jawline. Dark curls framed a wide forehead and aristocratic nose. Hooded eyes gave him the appearance of a romantic figure, and the image of Lord Byron flitted across Damien’s mind.
Stokes was talking with another gentleman and hardly gave the young girl who approached a passing glance, merely taking the glass of champagne she offered him. At least the man wasn’t a womanizer. The thought gave him little comfort.
After downing the champagne in a few gulps, Stokes and the other man moved to the door. As soon as it had closed behind them, Jonah was back at Damien’s side. “Time to move on, my friend.”
He matched his pace to Jonah’s, neither too fast nor too slow. As they reentered the corridor, the other men’s footsteps could be heard descending the stairs.
They made their way back down and retrieved their cloaks from a waiter just as the other men were leaving the building. Jonah slipped the young man a gold coin and said in an undertone, “A quid if you tell me where those two gents are off to. And hail us a cab while you’re about it.”
“Yes, sir!”
The waiter hurried after the two men. “I’ll hail your coach, sirs,” he called to them.
Jonah stood with his back to the door, taking his time hooking up his cloak. By the time they got outside, the other men were entering their coach, and a hack was drawing up near the curb. The young waiter stood holding the door open for them.
As they entered the foul-smelling cab, the man gave him an address. “Careful going there. It ain’t the best part o’ town.”
“I’ll take your advice to heart, thank you, my good man.” Jonah gave the waiter another coin and joined Damien within.
As the carriage started to move, Damien asked, “Where are we off to this time?”
“An address near Smithfield Market.”
He pictured the cattle market at this hour. “I imagine it’s deserted this time of night.”
Jonah patted his walking stick, equipped with a hidden dagger, on loan from a friend. “You’d be surprised.”
When they arrived on the dark street, Jonah let himself down. “I’ll instruct the driver to return in an hour. That should give me ample time.”
Damien moved to the coach door. Jonah held up a hand. “No, you go with him. Find yourself a nice coffeehouse in a better part of town.”
The sound of raucous laughter burst into the still night as the door to the tavern opened to let out a couple of staggering patrons. In the light from the doorway, Damien focused on Jonah’s upturned face. “What do you mean?”
“These places aren’t fit for a man like you. I’ll find out what I need to and let you know what kind of cove this Stokes is.”
Damien made to push his arm away. Jonah tightened his hold. “I wouldn’t feel right letting you in there. And have no fear I’ll do anything I wouldn’t be able to tell Florence.”
“It’s not that. I trust you. But I must see for myself what this man is. Why he’d be at a place like this.”
Jonah turned toward the pub. “There’s usually only a few reasons a fellow would frequent such a place, and I don’t believe he’s a thief. That leaves only two options—either he’s a drunkard or he’s looking for a piece of skirt.”
The last words made Damien feel sick inside. What kind of man was Miss Phillips betrothed to?
Damien drummed his fingers on the tabletop, his body feeling as tense as a hammer spring. He was ready to get up and head for the closed door, where he’d seen more than one man enter with a woman on his arm, sometimes two.
He’d been praying since he’d sat down, interceding for his brother-in-law that he wouldn’t fall into temptation and forget the reason they were here, praying for the lost souls around him. As the hour grew late, his spirit grew heavy at the debauchery. More than one woman had approached him, but he’d murmured his refusal and turned away.
How different Miss Phillips was from the coarse women here. She was all that was good and pure. How he wished he could be in her refreshing presence and forget the degradation he was witnessing.
A fight nearly broke out in the time he sat there, as tempers grew short and gin bottles were emptied.
“Hey, more of the heavy wet here!” A burly man in a dark, fustian coat shiny with age, his shirt and neck cloth grimy, banged his glass against the scarred oak table.
A voluptuous waitress weaved her way over to him. “Lemme see yer blunt.”
He threw down a coin, all the while ogling the woman as she bent over to retrieve it.
Damien nearly jumped at the heavy pressure of a hand on his shoulder. He gulped in relief at the sound of Jonah’s voice. “Ready?”
Damien stood immediately.
They said no more until they were out of the tavern. The dank fog, mingled with the stench of the cattle market, was preferable to the smoky interior crammed with human flesh, and Damien inhaled deeply.
They heard the sound of wheels on the hard ground. “Ah, just in time, good man.” The hackney rounded the corner and they quickly crossed the street toward it.
Hardly waiting for it to stop, Damien reached for the door handle.
When the coach was taking them away from the unsavory neighborhood, Damien leaned forward. “Well?” His brother-in-law hesitated. “You gave me your word you would not spare me,” Damien said.
Jonah eyed him across the dark coach. “I’d tell you to take my word for it that this man is no fit husband for Miss Phillips and be done with it, but I want you to know exactly what kind of man he is.”
With a heavy sigh, he began to speak.
Damien felt a red-hot rage grow inside him as Jonah’s narrative unfolded of what he’d witnessed behind the closed door. Clearly, Stokes was no gentleman to respect a woman. If he couldn’t treat a common prostitute with minimal decency, he wasn’t to be trusted on any level.
They rode the rest of the way in silence. Damien’s anger smoldered as Jonah’s words played themselves in his mind. How could he help Miss Phillips avoid a terrible fate?
He had no standing, not even as her clergyman. If he were on a better footing with Reverend Doyle, he’d go to him now and ask his advice. But the rector had expressed only displeasure with Damien’s conduct since his involvement in Jonah’s life. His hands fisted, wishing to hit something. The image of Stokes’s face appeared, shocking Damien with the intensity of his wish to strike it. Slowly, he unclenched his hands and eased back against the seat. He had never felt such rage against another human being—not since he’d been a helpless lad and teased for his lameness.
He was a man of the cloth, admonished to love his enemy.
But this man was set to defile an innocent woman—after defiling countless innocent women.
His hands fisted anew. He had to do something—anything—to help Miss Phillips escape this fate.
Dear God, You see what awaits her. Help her escape this fate.
Chapter Eight
A week later, nothing had changed. Lindsay had prayed long and hard, but each day simply brought her closer and closer to the inevitable day of her official betrothal ball. Finally, unable to bear it, she confided in her cousin.
Beatrice’s kindly face expressed immediate concern. “Oh, my dear, I sensed a hesitation on your part, but I was so hoping you’d grow to care for Mr. Stokes. Your father seems so taken with the idea of your marriage to him. Can’t you try to like him, my dear?”
They sat in Lindsay’s boudoir, away from any servants and—most of all—away from her father’s ears. Lindsay’s hands knotted together. “I thought I could accept Papa’s choice of husband for me.” She looked away and struggled to form the next words. “But, I find I cannot…like Mr. Stokes, no matter how much I try. I have tried, truly, I have.”
Beatrice reached out and covered her hands with one of her own. “I believe you. Indeed, I have seen it m
yself. You have made yourself perfectly agreeable and amenable to the gentleman.” After a pause, she continued more slowly. “I find him unexceptionable myself, a man above reproach from all that I have observed. I would have been proud to have landed such a fine gentleman at your age.”
Lindsay’s shoulders slumped, wishing Beatrice could offer something more. How little they knew of this man, who appeared the perfect gentleman around others.
Beatrice shook her head. “Such a pity. Does your father know your feelings?”
Lindsay shook her head. “It would break his heart. I’ve tried to…to delay things, but he is so set upon my engagement.”
“I understand. Oh, what are we to do?”
“I don’t know. I had hoped…” She remembered the curate’s kind words and sympathetic looks. His words my dear had echoed in her mind, but with each passing day of silence from him, they had faded, and with it the hope he’d ignited.
“Hoped what?” Beatrice asked softly.
“Nothing.” She shook her head. “Some last-minute reprieve.”
“It will be all right, you’ll see. You shall grow to care for Mr. Stokes upon further acquaintance. A young bride is always skittish, I’m told.” She ended with an embarrassed laugh. “It takes time to accustom yourselves to each other.”
Lindsay looked away. She didn’t know what she’d hoped for from her cousin, but she could see now that there would be no help from her. She couldn’t blame Beatrice. Her cousin was wholly dependent on her father and couldn’t very well contradict him.
Damien sat tinkering at a clockworks after dinner, his mind separated from the task, his fingers moving almost of their own volition, completing the familiar maneuvers.
Tonight Lindsay’s betrothal would be announced. Her fate would be sealed. And there is nothing I can do to stop it!
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