by Jaima Fixsen
Her answering look was sharp enough to make most people recoil, but Jasper’s armor was thick. “Don’t be vulgar,” she said, a little too loud. Sophy glanced at them with a worried frown.
Jasper waited until Alistair reclaimed her attention. “And what of him? He used to flirt with her, it’s true, but you know that means nothing.” He peered at them through the candelabra on the table. Alistair always did his best to charm whoever he was seated beside. It was one of the reasons he was so popular.
“Like Sophy herself, you underestimate her appeal,” his mother said, dabbing her lips with a napkin. “Alistair would have to be blind not to take an interest. I did not invite him to take a cousin’s familiarities with her.”
She knew something she was not telling him. He never trusted her, but when she smiled like this he must use extra caution.
“I don’t think anyone did,” Jasper grunted. He liked Alistair better than any of his cousins, but still . . .
“And there is the matter of Cyril’s debts.” Lady Fairchild said softly, smiling at her plate.
“What?”
“Cyril. He’s proving quite expensive to your uncle, I’m afraid. Alistair’s expectations have decreased considerably.”
Jasper resisted the urge to grind his teeth. Looking useless, as he chose to do, was one thing; being useless was another matter entirely. He had known for some time that Cyril was the actually useless kind. “Hang Cyril,” he said, losing his patience. “Uncle’s certainly given him enough rope. How bad is it for Alistair?”
“I told you your Aunt Louisa thinks Sophy’s portion would be very suitable.”
It was damnably unfair, Jasper thought. Being a third son was bad enough, but to have Cyril blowing through money that would otherwise come to you was the outside of enough.
For the rest of the meal, he watched Sophy and Alistair as assiduously as his mother. Sophy smiled and made a few quips, but when she lapsed into silence her face was solemn. Alistair touched her arm and she reacted like a skittish colt.
“When does my sister arrive?” Lady Fairchild asked more loudly, speaking for everyone’s ears now.
“She wrote that we could expect her on Wednesday,” Alistair said. “She is anxious to visit with you, Aunt.”
“It has been too long since she’s come to town,” Lady Fairchild said, “It will be such a pleasure to see her.” She glanced down the table to her husband.
“Quite so,” he said signing to the footman to refill his glass. Jasper concealed a smile. His father hated Aunt Louisa. Across the table the eldest Miss Matcham, invited to even the numbers, piped up that she hoped she should make Lady Ruffington’s acquaintance.
“Jasper says you enjoy driving,” Alistair said at Sophy's elbow. “Would you honor me with your company sometime this week?”
Jasper did not like the way Sophy’s throat constricted. “That would be lovely,” she said. “But I much prefer to ride.”
“Riding it is, then,” he said. “Later this week, so long as the weather holds.”
“Sophy isn’t deterred by bad weather,” Jasper said, nettled. She ought to assert herself. “Take care she doesn’t muddy your colors, Alistair.” Miss Matcham tittered. She and her sister were hot house blooms; not much good for anything out of doors.
“That wouldn’t concern me, coz,” Alistair said. “My man is very good at brushing out the dirt.”
“You don’t object, Father?” Sophy said, casting her eyes up the table.
He gave his answer to Alistair. “So long as you look after her. Can’t have her falling again.”
Jasper bridled. It wasn’t enough that they were dishing her up for Alistair, he had to remind her of her accident too.
“I believe my falling is not an ordinary occurrence, father,” Sophy said tightly.
“And I pray it is one that is not repeated, my dear,” interjected Lady Fairchild. “I don’t think my nerves could stand it.”
When the ladies withdrew to the drawing room, Jasper did not linger over the port. “Please give mother my excuses,” he told his father. “I’m not feeling quite the thing.”
No one believed him, though it was true.
He felt a migraine lurking. It was all his family’s fault. They were incapable of leaving a body alone. His mother was cock-a-hoop with her plans for Sophy; if Alistair was going to be her pawn, he despised him too. Even Sophy was grating on his nerves. She was supposed to be his ally, not his parents’ creature. It angered him that she had forgiven his father so easily after years of neglect and after what he had done to her mother.
Faugh! His parents were detestable, both of them.
He didn’t know why Sophy wasn’t turned over in love with Alistair—she must be unique among womankind—but it was clear to him that she wasn’t. Nevertheless, she was being maneuvered into marriage by his smiling parents because it was good for her and for the family. It might not have troubled him, if she hadn’t told him she’d hoped for more.
Thunder and turf, why didn't they just let Sophy alone? Let her be a spinster if she liked—he’d always give her a home at Cordell. The place was certainly big enough and Sophy wasn’t the type to fight domestic battles with the wife he must inevitably take. Perish the thought. He’d probably take Sophy’s side, if it came to that.
Pressing a hand to his temples, he blinked away the lights that danced in the dark corners of his vision. Lord, he needed a drink.
“Your hat, sir.” Jenkins’ voice was calm as ever, but his eyes were troubled. He could always tell when Jasper had a headache coming on. When Jasper was a boy, Jenkins always would find him some dark, cool place to rest undisturbed.
“Thank-you, Jenkins,” Jasper said, knowing he wasn’t fooled by his smile.
“Forgive me for asking, sir, but does your man look after you right?” Only Jenkins would have presumed to ask.
“He does a bang up job with my boots.” But he wasn’t good with migraines. Last time he’d waved some odious scent in Jasper’s face. Served him right when he had retched all over his shoes.
“I could make up a room for you here, sir.” Jenkins lowered his voice. “Lady Fairchild needn't know.”
“Ah, Jenkins,” Jasper smiled. Dash it, he was fond of the fellow. “You can always divine the source of my troubles. No, I think my removal will serve best.”
“Very good, sir.” Jenkins correctly handed Jasper his walking stick and held open the door.
Outside, Jasper drank in the cooler air of the street. It was malodorous, but still better than the hot, dead air of his mother’s drawing room. Poor Sophy. He did not envy her, stuck beside Alistair with his mother watching expectantly.
Well, there was little he could do if she wasn’t going to kick up a dust. Hailing a hackney, he drove round to St. James to have a look in on Boz, who took one look at his friend and decided something must be done. “I know just where to take you,” he said. “We’ll bring Andre. Fellow’s nearly as blue-deviled as you. That aunt of his isn’t dying after all.”
The three young blades left the exalted streets of Mayfair in another hackney, driving into seedy districts and stopping at a riverside tavern.
“Appalling place,” Boz promised. “You’ll love it.”
Jasper made a face. “Getting cast away and boxing the watch again? We’re too old for these pranks.”
Boz shot Andre a dismayed look. “There’s always the White House.”
Jasper shook his head at the mention of this select brothel, assuring Boz his first idea was better.
The Duck and Drake was a weathered tavern favored by seafaring men.
“Pungent,” Boz said, bringing a handkerchief to his nose. The public room was nearly empty, but the sour smell of river, sweat and gin was thick enough to stand a knife in. The stink must have sunk into the timbers of the building. Still, the tables looked clean enough. The two serving maids were plump, with clear skin and blushing cheeks, the freshness of youth not yet ground from their faces. An assortment of
sailors diced and frowned over tattered cards around rough tables, while two men in plain black suits lounged at the bar, long pipes in hand, blowing out a cloud of smoke.
“Perfect,” Andre said, his eyes dancing with delight.
Settling around the table nearest the door, they diced and drank blue ruin, watching the other patrons with interest. Some men left; new ones came; all drank more. One of the serving maids, a pretty blonde, began attending to their table, bending low as she wiped wet rings of gin off the scarred surface. Boz, who received the best view, whistled.
“What’s your name?” he asked, slipping his arm around her waist and drawing her in close. A burly, red haired sailor looked up from his dice, but only Jasper noticed. Boz and Andre’s attention was all on the girl. She laughed and agreed to join them, sitting on Boz’s knee while he signed to the host to bring over a meat pie.
She was good, Jasper thought, watching her charm both Boz and Andre in turn, who were making cakes of themselves. Not surprising, considering how many balls of fire they were swallowing.
Andre was raising his glass in yet another toast. “Your beautiful tits—best I’ve seen.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Boz agreed.
“Indeed,” Jasper said, following. They were magnificent, it could not be denied.
When he set down his glass, the red headed man was standing behind Andre, glowering.
“Yous ain’t the only blokes as wants drinks brought to their table.”
“Of course not, good man.” Andre’s eyes were glassy. “There’s another one—where is she? Well, the host can serve you.”
“An if we don’t wants ‘im?”
Warily, Jasper tensed in his seat. They were fuddled, all of them, even the girl, who scowled at the intruder. But that man had shoulders like Atlas; none of them were up to his weight.
“I thinks it’s time you swells took yourselves off,” he said, grabbing Andre’s lapels and hoisting him to his feet. Like an eel, the girl darted away, ducking behind the counter.
Over Goliath’s shoulder, Jasper saw his friends rising from their seats, anticipatory grins lighting their faces. Boz was standing, slurring protests.
“My good man,” Jasper said, stepping forward. “Let’s not be too hasty. Five against three? Those aren’t fair odds. This calls for a friendly wager. You and your friends are dicing. Let me join you. If your roll beats mine, my friends and I will relinquish all claims to the fair —”
“Kate,” Boz supplied.
“Wha’s reel-an-quish?”
“We will leave her be.”
Goliath shook his head slowly. “You might win. I’m not a Johnny Raw to take worse odds than I’ve already gots.” His eyes flicked at his friends.
“Of course not. But if I win Kate, I’ll buy your drinks. How’s that?” Lord, let him say yes so they could get out of here.
“Take it,” urged Goliath’s sharp-eyed friend.
“All right then.” Goliath held out a chair for Jasper at his table. Jasper sat down, Boz and Andre standing behind him, flanking each shoulder. Boz at least seemed to realize they were in something of a fix, but Andre was sulking belligerently.
“You first,” Goliath ordered.
Jasper rolled an eight. Higher than he’d wanted, but still a decent chance of being beaten. He glanced at the door, suddenly so far away. The other patrons were gathering around, laying their own bets on the contest. Hopefully they wouldn’t stop him and his friends from leaving once the business was concluded.
Goliath threw a five and Jasper nearly groaned. He slapped a guinea onto the table and rose. “My consolations.” Kissing his fingers to Kate who was peeking over the top of the bar, he took Andre and Boz’s arms and sidestepped towards the door. Goliath and his friends were still staring at the gold piece shining on the table.
“Quickly!” Jasper whispered, hauling his friends out the door. The street was quiet. Not a hackney in sight. Boz swore.
“Leaving so soon?” Goliath and his friends spilled out of the tavern onto the street. “How bout’s you and I throw some more?”
“I’m afraid I have no more time, my good man.” Jasper did not like to turn and run, but if he stayed, Goliath would fleece him and then mash him to a pulp. He stepped backward and Andre stumbled. Deuce take it.
Goliath advanced. “We’ll have a few more throws, right fellows?” They voiced jeering assent.
“Really, I’m afraid it’s impossible,” Jasper flustered, dragging Andre to his feet. Why hadn't he thought to bring a pistol?
“Hear that mates? He’s afraid.”
Jasper grimaced. They were not going to walk away from this one.
A tall figure detached himself from the crowd. “Let them go, Jonas. You can’t afford any trouble. They won’t bother us again.”
Hm. His biblical nickname hadn't been far wrong. Goliath-Jonas shook off the man's restraining hand.
“Jonas, I’m warning you.”
Goliath-Jonas swore loudly, shoving the man aside with force that should have sent him sprawling. Instead, the man danced nimbly to the side. Before anyone could blink, his fist cannoned into the side of Goliath's head. Goliath fell backwards into the crowd.
The stranger was beside Jasper in an instant, shouldering Andre's other arm. “Move,” he commanded.
Boz ran ahead, Jasper and the stranger dragging Andre between them. The shouts of the crowd behind them were drawing attention from the windows leaning over the street. If people were noticing, they might make their escape.
Around the corner deliverance waited in the form of the most run-down hackney Jasper had ever seen. He’d lay odds six to four the thing wouldn't make it to Mayfair.
“Go, or they’ll come after you,” the stranger said. “You shouldn’t flash your blunt around like that.”
“What else was I to do, pray?” Jasper grumbled, nodding at the driver and hauling open the door.
“You shouldn’t come here. Or if you’re chawbacon enough to haunt this district, bring a pistol. You fools haven’t even got a sword stick between you.”
“I have!” Boz protested, raising his ebony cane and almost hitting Jasper in the face.
The stranger stepped into the lamplight and for the first time Jasper glimpsed his face.
“I know you,” he said, but dashed if he could remember where.
“I’m Bagshot,” the man said. “Your neighbor.”
“Ah.” Jasper felt suddenly foolish. He’d seen him once at the park, but had avoided him, because by then his parents had been a fair way to forgetting Sophy’s unfortunate accident. He hadn’t wanted to bring her more trouble by presenting them with this problem.
“Stay away from here. Not your crowd,” Bagshot said.
“Is it yours?” Jasper asked, curious.
Tom’s voice was rough. “Yes. I was meeting an old friend.”
Jasper pushed Andre inside the coach and stepped aside to allow Bagshot in.
“No, thank you,” Bagshot said.
“There’s only one, man.” Jasper said. “And if we break down, which I'm afraid is very likely, I might have need of your fists again.”
“Very well.” Bagshot climbed in.
Andre was snoring by the time they reached St. James. “I’ll have to help him inside,” Jasper said, with an expression of distaste. “You alright, Boz?” Receiving an affirmative, he allowed Boz to walk away down the street.
“Where’s your digs?” Jasper asked Tom.
He snorted, not impressed with Jasper’s slang. “You can’t do it right, you know. It puts people’s backs up. I’m not far. I’ll take the hackney the rest of the way.”
Tempted to ask if the slang bothered him too, Jasper bit his tongue. He had been an ass. This was Bagshot’s second favor. He owed the man something. On the pavement, with Andre draped on his shoulder, Jasper turned to the open carriage door. “Bagshot?”
“Yes?” Tom leaned forward, so his face was visible again.
“Please accept
my thanks.”
“It’s nothing to me. I didn’t want Jonas to get into trouble. His wife and children need his wage. You can thank me by trying not to be such an ass.”
Jasper blinked. Well, he’d thought it himself. “Point taken.” He grinned. “May I call on you tomorrow, if I promise not to put up your back?”
Tom frowned, surprised. Jasper pressed on. “Where do you live?" he asked.
“Russell Square, but I’m busy tomorrow.” Tom leaned back, disappearing from sight. “If you want to see me, you can come to my office.”
Ah, a test. He probably deserved it. “I shall call on you there, at your convenience,” he said. It was too hard to bow, with Andre sliding off him.
“I don’t have a card,” Tom said and told him the address.
“Goodnight, Mr. Bagshot,” Jasper said and ordered the jarvey to drive on.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Complications
It was all for the best, Sophy told herself, listlessly handing round the tea cups. Sinking onto the love seat beside Alistair, she crumbled a biscuit onto her saucer and watched her tea turn cold.
“You aren’t going to drink that,” Alistair said, reaching over to take her cup and saucer. “It’s stone cold.” The cup rattled loudly as he swept it aside and set in on the nearby table. Empty handed, Sophy felt her last barricades were gone.
“What’s troubling you?” he asked, leaning forward and lowering his voice. “Not Henrietta’s ball still, surely.” Seeing fire kindling in her eyes, he rested a large hand on her own. “It does bother you, then?”
Unaccountably, Sophy felt tears threatening at the corners of her eyes. She gave a short nod, looking across the room, but Lord and Lady Fairchild had moved to the opposite corner with Miss Matcham, their heads bent over an open book of engravings resting on the table.
“I’m sorry, Sophy,” Alistair said, for once seeming sincere. “I didn't mean to embarrass you. I was pleased. Don’t you know that inexperience is exactly what a man looks for in a wife?”
She was speechless, unable to muster the bravado of Henrietta’s ball and the masquerade. He was earnest, his eyes assured, with just a hint of lurking amusement.
