There were a lot of women that he had helped.
But there were also a number of children.
And plenty of men.
There were people who did not even know he had helped them, some of whom were at very high levels.
But Margaret couldn’t know any of that.
All she knew was that there was more to him than she knew, and it probably terrified her.
He had to prove to her that there was only her. But he failed to see how he could accomplish that while things stood as they were.
Her smile was the promise of what was to come, and he would keep that in his mind.
And now that he had seen her well and whole, he had business to attend to.
He slid his hands into his pockets and whistled as he walked the streets, turning a corner and seeing two of his children standing there. He tilted his head and headed in their direction.
“Sarah, Arthur, what brings you out here?” he asked, leaning against the wall beside them.
Arthur shrugged and thumbed his nose. “Me mark’s inside, Gent. I tried the kitchens, but the cook walloped me somefink fierce.”
Rafe tsked and looked the boy over. “Are you all right?”
Arthur gave him a withering look. “She ain’t me mam, Gent. I can take worse, and ‘ave done.”
Rafe smiled at him and nodded, knowing it was true, and also knowing that Arthur would be mortally offended if he suggested he was not strong enough to receive some cook’s punishment.
He looked down at the dark-haired girl tapping her shoe. “Sarah, your turn.”
Sarah looked up at him with a strange look. “Mine’s inside, too, Gent.”
He looked between them both, his thoughts spinning fast. Their marks should not be connected at all. One was on Rafe’s traitor list, but a fairly mild character, and the other was simply an unpleasant fellow with some less than savory ties, and…
Rafe nearly slapped his forehead. Why wouldn’t they be connected? But if it was getting to be more of a problem, he needed more stealth and could not let the children be so involved.
He glanced back down at them, thinking fast. “Sarah, see if the cook will let you inside. She might be more sympathetic to girls. Can you cry?”
Immediately the girl’s big brown eyes welled up and Rafe grinned. “Perfect. Go and see what you can do. Ears open.”
Sarah nodded and dashed around the back of the building.
Rafe turned to Arthur, who thumbed his cap back a little. “Arthur, run down the lane and give the signal. See if Kip comes around, and have him take over. If he doesn’t, any of the others will do. Then you mark the movements of yours and report to him, all right?”
Arthur saluted and dashed off.
Rafe exhaled, his heart pounding. Between Castleton’s odd maneuvering in darker sides of London and the suspicious meetings of others, something was in the works, and the familiar excitement of his profession stirred within him. The thrill of the chase never got old.
He waited across the street unobtrusively until Kip and Arthur returned, exchanged nods, and then Rafe went on, heading towards finer parts of London than he usually visited as the Gent, but he had an appointment with Rook and his brother, and it had to be done with the utmost caution.
Sphinx had his own intelligence on the situation, and rarely reported in person, but this was a special situation with far too many players.
So they had chosen a fairly neutral and safe location for them all to meet.
Rafe’s home.
Usually, this was a very frowned upon idea, but Rook had insisted that he and his brother could absolutely call upon Lord Marlowe, as they had all gone to Eton, and had even offered to schedule a duel for later, if he was so inclined.
He might have taken him up on it, if he thought they wouldn’t be hanged by the Shopkeepers for making a spectacle of themselves unnecessarily.
Rook didn’t know how good Rafe was with weaponry.
Then again, he didn’t know how good Rook was, either.
He shook his head as he went in the back servant’s entrance of his house, as per usual when he was dressed like this. The narrow, pokey hall opened up to the servants’ stair, and Rafe glanced up as something creaked above him.
“My lord,” greeted Rogers, his ginger-haired valet, who looked over his ensemble with a wrinkled up nose as he descended.
Rafe grinned and inclined his head. “Rogers.”
“Have we been scuttling coal this morning, my lord?” Rogers asked, his voice slightly nasal as if he were holding his breath.
“No, just the usual.” He shrugged and brushed at his sleeves. “Perhaps a little more than the usual, but no coal. You wouldn’t believe how filthy one can get in my profession.”
As he expected, Rogers stiffened and shook his head.
“I don’t know,” Rogers muttered, walking away. “I don’t know, and I don’t want to know.”
Rafe followed into the main of the house, grinning like a fool. “You sure, Rogers? I trust you, I could tell you.”
His valet completely ignored him. “I could have worked for the Lord Mayor,” he muttered. “I could have gone into theater. Mother always said my talents were wasted on the mundane.”
Rafe bit back a laugh and turned the opposite way from his dramatic valet, grateful he had so few servants, but such entertaining ones. It made coming home such a pleasure, when he was able to.
“Sir, you have guests in the library.”
Rafe turned to see his long-faced butler, who was neither surprised at his ensemble nor ruffled by his sudden appearance. Davis was used to his comings and goings, and had learned to never expect anything of him.
“Excellent, Davis,” Rafe answered with a clipped nod. He took two steps, then glanced over at the greying man. “Remind me where the library is.”
Davis exhaled noisily, which made Rafe smile with sympathy. Poor Davis, it was such a trial working for him.
“I know where it is, Davis,” he assured him, wondering if he would respond well to a patting on the shoulder. “I was only having a laugh.”
His butler’s expression never changed. “Very amusing, my lord.”
Rafe shook his head to himself, and started towards the library.
“My lord?”
He turned back with a raised brow.
Davis kept his gaze firmly over Rafe’s left shoulder. “Your ensemble, sir. Perhaps you should change.”
Rafe looked down at himself, then back up at his butler, hands on his hips. “Are you trying to replace Rogers?”
Davis seemed to shudder. “No, my lord.”
Rafe hummed a little in thought, then shook his head. “No, I’ll go in as I am. This won’t take long.”
He turned for the library, wondering just what Davis was muttering to himself, and grinned as he pushed open the library door.
Rook looked like his usual peacock self in a sapphire waistcoat and silvery coat, his hair perfection, his face clean-shaven. The other man in the room was an older, darker, more reserved version of him. Their eyes were the same shade of green, and he could see the similar features, but they could not have been more different. The brother wore grey as well, but a very subdued version, far more typical of the men of London, and he looked as though life had not been kind to him.
If Rafe didn’t know better, he would say that this older brother was a dullard and more inclined to sleep than think. But that was the genius of Sphinx. He was brilliant, and not a soul would suspect it.
Both men rose and bowed in unison, and Rafe reciprocated. “Thank you for coming,” he said simply, gesturing for them to be seated and then taking a seat as well.
Rook nodded, then gestured at his brother. “You know Sphinx?”
“Only by reputation,” Rafe replied, inclining his head respectfully. “A privilege, sir.”
Sphinx waved his hand dismissively. “Not a sir,” he told him in a surprisingly deep voice. “And you know full well you two have the more dangerous ta
sks.”
Rafe smiled, looking at Rook, who was regarding his brother with a sort of amused irritation. Rook was a dandy, but he was a damned fine operative, and it was obvious he and his brother were close, despite their differences in personality and skills.
“That may be,” Rafe allowed, crossing his ankles, “but only in the physical sense. Now, am I to understand you have some information I need?”
Sphinx nodded slowly. “I do. But first, I believe Rook has an idea to tell you, which will make what I am to tell you more interesting.”
Rafe turned to his colleague expectantly. “Do I want to know?”
Rook smiled a little. “Your Castleton is a slimy fellow, which you will soon know more about, but based on Sphinx’s information, you will want an operative within his home.”
Rafe sat back heavily. “We don’t have anyone available. I’ve asked Cap and Eagle. And Milliner. There is no one.”
“There is no one trained,” Rook corrected, smiling a little. “Which is easy enough to fix, given she won’t need much.”
Rafe stared at Rook for a long moment, putting the pieces together. “You have someone in mind.”
Rook nodded once. “I do. Well, Weaver did, anyway. Come!” he called.
The door to the library opened and in strode Tilda, looking too pleased with herself, Hal, looking suspicious, and oddly enough, Callie, the one maid he employed here.
The men rose as they entered, which made Hal snort and roll her eyes, and Callie looked bewildered by it.
“What’s all this?” Rafe asked, though he suspected he knew already.
Rook didn’t say anything, and Sphinx was staring at Hal with a little too much interest. Not that Hal noticed, she was already sitting down and sketching away, spectacles perched on her head.
Tilda sat next to Rook, draping herself on him, and waved Callie into a seat. “Sit down, love, you’ll need to hear this.”
“Hear what?” Rafe asked of anyone.
Rook cleared his throat, and Hal looked up at Rafe. “Sir Vincent likes blondes.”
Rafe glanced at Callie, who, it seemed, had already been briefed on this, and then back at Hal. “So you want to send Callie to work for him in the hopes he bites?”
Rook chortled and Tilda tittered, while Sphinx just shook his head. “He won’t do anything, and Callie can handle herself, I presume.”
“How’s that? You just met her,” Hal retorted, obviously not in favor of the plan.
Sphinx looked at her with one imperious brow raised. “She works for Gent.”
That made the whole room laugh, even Callie.
“I can handle it, my lord,” Callie told him, her diction as perfect as a London miss. “He’ll be wanting a new maid, and I can manage myself. He’s interested in your lady for her money, but it’ll be me he chases. I can get close without raising suspicions and hear everything that goes on in the house.”
Rafe smiled at his spunky maid, wondering who had tapped her for this. “You have been fully briefed, haven’t you, Callie?”
She smiled back, ducking her chin. “I’m an old friend of Trick, my lord. I got this post on purpose.”
Rafe looked at Hal in surprise, but his friend gave nothing away. Not many people in the world knew about Trick, let alone that Hal was his sister. But if that was Callie’s connection, this could all work out quite brilliantly.
He began to slowly nod and turned back to Sphinx. “What is the mission, then?”
Chapter Eighteen
It had been a week from hell itself. Margaret had not thought things could get any worse than they’d already been, but every time she had the thought, it always got worse.
From not eating, to no social agenda, to no entertainment of any sort, and the only thing to come from the good behavior that she had exhibited was that now she was able to leave her room for two hours a day without cause.
Lady Raeburn had called three times since their tea with Aunt Ada, and she was always permitted to see her. Each time, Lady Raeburn had devised an excuse for Miss Ritson to leave the room and she had given Margaret a note from her cousin, and Margaret could respond. After the first time, Margaret had a letter ready to give, and Lady Raeburn had a very serious talk with her about what was going on, and let it be known that her parents had been sent for, but there had been no word from them.
It was the only bright spot in her days, knowing now that she had individuals on whom she could rely for a good account of what was happening.
Somehow, the servant situation was getting worse. The numbers were dwindling, and she could see it. Miss Ritson denied any issues, claiming they were all simply too busy to stand for Margaret’s inspection.
There was something wrong about the house and way Miss Ritson was controlling everything. Everything felt wrong, and as she was so limited in her activities and abilities, she could not investigate the feeling. She felt as though she were living in someone else’s house, a prisoner in some unfamiliar place with only strangers for company. It was unnerving and eerie, and Margaret found herself wishing there was a way to get word to Rafe somehow.
Her anger had abated, and now she wanted him more desperately than ever, which undoubtedly made her a fool and a coward. He may not be the man she thought he was, but he was a good man all the same, and she could see how he had not set out to make her fall in love with him. She had done that all to herself. All he had done was be there. And stir up thoughts. And dreams. And save her from ruin.
He was the Gent, just as he had always said, and he had never pretended anything else.
She had pretended and imagined quite enough for them both.
But could she have imagined the way he looked at her? Could he really have treated anyone else with the same gentleness and warmth? Did he kiss another woman the way he had kissed her?
She couldn’t believe it. He was too good for that.
Don’t pretend that all of those days of seeing each other didn’t give us a certain knowledge.
Rafe’s words to her echoed in her mind again, warming her and confusing her all at once. She thought she knew him, but could she be sure? He had not come again, but she had not given him reason to. She had no way to get word to him as it was, and she knew, somehow, that if she sent for him, he would appear.
And she greatly feared that if he did, she would know in an instant if she loved him still.
She rather suspected she did.
He had been there at Aunt Ada’s, just as he had been so many times before, and the comfort that had brought her had surprised her. It was so natural for him to be there, so easy and familiar.
And she was positive that he did not do that for all those other women.
She shivered now, waiting in her room for Miss Ritson to allow her out. They were to go out and pay calls today, but she had not been informed as to whom. She doubted she would enjoy the experience.
For one thing, the gown she was wearing was an uglier rendition of the ensemble from Mrs. Andrews’ shop, and the only thing to recommend it was the fact that the neckline was higher than that particular gown. But only just. It was a deep red, which she did not mind, except when combined with the black lace emphasizing certain parts of her, she felt like one of the women sitting in the Bounty. Her corset had been laced too tight, but not as tightly as that horrible day, so at least she could breathe without pain.
She could not move, but she could breathe.
Small mercies.
A knock on her door sounded. “Miss Easton?” called a low male voice. “Are you ready?”
She snorted softly and rose from her chair. “Yes, Horace, I am ready.”
The door opened, and the burly man stood at the threshold. “Miss Ritson is waiting for you downstairs.”
“Of course, she is,” Margaret replied, sighing heavily. She twisted her lips, then looked at her guard. “Horace, do I look as ridiculous as I think I do?”
He glanced her over, then looked away, face flushing. “It’s not my place, miss.”
She glowered at him. “That’s all right. You just did.” She shook her head and strode past him, heading down the stairs and trying not to notice how the few maids about the house stared at her.
She looked like a Cyprian off to meet her protector.
Which meant she had a fair idea of where they were going.
Miss Ritson was properly dressed and waiting for her at the door, and looked her over with a bizarre sort of pride. “Yes, that will do nicely,” she told her, almost praising. “Sir Vincent will be most pleased with you.”
Margaret gave her a disgusted look. “Would it not be more efficient for you if I went in my undergarments? Then we could claim myself compromised within five minutes of entry, and the whole thing will be over, and much less expensively done.”
Miss Ritson’s eyes flashed and she flicked her wrist at the maids waiting with Margaret’s bonnet and cloak. “Mind your tongue, or there will be no meals at all for the rest of the day.”
“That would be a change,” Margaret muttered as she tied her bonnet ribbons, feeling a jolt of satisfaction at the way Sally made a choking sound behind her as she adjusted the cloak.
Her chaperone’s jaw tensed so much that Margaret was positive her face was going to break into a thousand pieces. “You are dismissed!” Miss Ritson barked.
The maids bobbed and vanished quickly, and Margaret folded her hands primly before her, waiting for the fury to unleash upon her.
Miss Ritson stared at her for a moment, her breathing erratic and unsteady, her eyes wild. She took two steps closer to Margaret, and exhaled shortly. “Let me make something perfectly clear to you. Whatever airs and authority you think you have, you do not. Whatever choice you think you have, you do not. You and your impudent quips have no influence on what is about to happen.”
Margaret felt the first twinges of fear as she watched her composed chaperone grow colder and crueler in expression and being than ever before.
The Lady and the Gent (London League, Book 1) Page 22
