by Jade Lee
Penworthy nodded, clearly not in the least bit surprised. "Of course, Fantine. Thank you."
Marcus watched dumbfounded as she served his friend tea with sugar, clearly demonstrating that she had learned of his preference beforehand. She turned expectantly to Marcus.
"And you, my lord? Ah, never mind," she said with a mischievous smile. "I can tell you would prefer stronger spirits, especially as yours seems to have deserted you."
Marcus stiffened at the insult. He held back a scathing comment demanding Penworthy explain himself. He had no expectation that she would illuminate this odd situation. But even as he turned toward his mentor, the elderly man shrugged.
"Do not look at me for answers. If I had warned you in advance, she would have behaved the perfect society miss and then you would have thought my wits had gone begging—"
"Ah," interrupted the strange woman as she poured her own tea, "but I believe Lord Chadwick thought so in any event. Imagine," she said, slipping into her tart tone, "a peer o' the realm introducing a dockside fancy piece to 'is friends!"
Marcus winced at her abrupt shift in accent, only now realizing that she had read him perfectly, guessed his assumptions, and had, in fact, played upon them to make him feel all the more uncomfortable.
For the first time in three years, his blood began the slow simmer toward fury. But he kept it contained, purposely turning his shoulder to the woman as he addressed his friend in low tones as sharp as any blade. "Why is she here?"
Penworthy opened his mouth to respond, but once again she cut in, her voice tripping expertly over the accents of a dockside chippy. "Why, to catch yer thievin', murderin' aristocrat, ducky!"
Marcus felt his breath catch in his throat. It could not be true. Penworthy was not a foolish man. He would never employ such a woman.
But as the moments ticked by without a word from his associate, Marcus's confidence began to waver. As the seconds dragged into minutes, Marcus found himself studying Penworthy's guilty expression.
"You cannot be serious," Marcus finally exploded. "You cannot send this... this creature to apprehend a peer! Why, she would make a circus of the whole affair!"
"Aye, an' won't that be just peachy for th' masses?" she chimed in.
Marcus turned, his eyes critical as he rudely inspected her from top to bottom. He could not tell whether she was a smart miss playing the whore or a whore playing a society maid. But either way, she was not in the least bit qualified to stop a threat to one of the nation's leaders. Why, he would not trust her to black his boots properly!
But as he turned to Penworthy, he saw from his friend's set expression that he truly did intend just that. "Good God," Marcus sputtered, "but she is an actress!" He spat the word out like bad meat.
Finally, Penworthy spoke, and his voice sounded calm, albeit weary. "No, Marcus, Fantine is very much more than an actress, just as you are very much more than a rich peer." That last part was clearly directed at the woman, but she appeared to take no note of it. "In actual fact, I hoped the two of you would work together on this particular assignment."
"What?" he cried, surging to his feet.
"Impossible!" she exclaimed at exactly the same instant.
He spun around to glare at her though his words were aimed at his friend. "I have given up this skulking about, as you well know, Penworthy. But even if I had not, God himself could not make me teach this street rat what she needs to know."
"Teach me!" she cried, leaping to her own feet to match him glare for glare. "God Himself could not teach you what you need to learn." Then she spun back to Penworthy. "If you think I shall allow myself to be hampered by this spoiled flash, then your wits are addled by the pox!"
"The pox!" Marcus retorted. "Perhaps that is why you imagine you could possibly—"
"Do not even attempt to speak to me with that tone—"
Suddenly, a loud hacking cough interrupted both of them. They turned together, and Marcus's eyes widened at the sight of his dear friend coughing blood into a handkerchief.
"Have some tea, my lord," the woman said, as she deftly poured him another cup. But Penworthy merely shook his head, his face a dull gray.
"Brandy," he whispered.
"No..." she began, but Marcus was already at the sideboard, pouring a brandy. Penworthy accepted it with alacrity, gulping it down too quickly, then gesturing for more.
Marcus, however, hesitated. "Sir," he began slowly, "if your health is precarious—"
"Pray do not pretend concern now," interrupted the shrew. "Not after giving him the drink."
Marcus turned to her, using the motion to set aside the brandy, well away from Penworthy. He had not intended to respond to her gibe, but one look at her contemptuous expression had him pulling on his aristocratic bearing like a coat, words tumbling from his mouth without conscious thought. "His color is much better now," he said, his voice fairly reeking with hauteur.
She merely shook her head and mocked him with an inelegant snort. He responded silently, raising his eyebrow with an equally contemptuous sneer. Then she mimicked his pose, adding an extra measure of haughtiness by pretending to lift a quizzing glass to her eye, and suddenly he had the strongest desire to stick out his tongue at her.
Had he regressed to the point of infancy? he wondered as he struggled to control his baser instincts.
Meanwhile, Penworthy interrupted his thoughts. "Where were we?" he wheezed.
"Saving Wilberforce's life," supplied Marcus gently.
"Ah, yes," returned Penworthy. "Fantine, can you help me protect the MP, please?"
She straightened her shoulders, her expression sickeningly demure. "Of course, my lord. It would be my great honor to do my duty for England and my king."
Marcus merely rolled his eyes.
"Naturally, you will receive your standard pay," returned Penworthy.
Marcus shifted, his face pulling into an unholy grin. "Standard pay? For doing your patriotic duty?"
"Some o' us," she said, shifting into her dockside accent, "ain't paid just t' breathe an' dress fancy, ducks. It be this or on me back, spreading me thighs for the loikes of you. An' believe me," she added in an undertone, "I'd rather face a whole battalion o' Frenchies than spread for you."
Marcus felt his hands clench at the insult, but he kept his comments to himself. Despite his fury, he was still a man ruled by reason. He had no right to question or mock her method of earning a living, especially if those were indeed her only two choices.
"You have other choices than that, Fantine, as you well know," Penworthy said harshly. "If you would but—"
"No," she interrupted hastily. "I cannot."
"You can."
She merely shook her head, her mouth pressed tightly together, and Marcus frowned, wondering at the exchange. Did he sense an edge of fear from the raucous woman? A vulnerability, maybe, but to what? Penworthy? Or whatever Penworthy offered? He didn't know, and there was no time to ponder as his mentor turned to him.
"What of you, Marcus? Fantine could search through the rookeries while you investigate from Grosvenor Square. The Season will begin soon. There will be ample opportunity to mingle without raising comment."
"Merely the interest of every matchmaking mama from here to Scotland," he responded dryly as he crossed to the sideboard for more brandy.
"Ah, poor ducks," Fantine cut in. "All them laidies tossin' 'emselves at yer feet. Ain't it a pity they's all blind t' wot ye're really loike?"
He turned slowly, knowing his gaze was cold and cruel. "Quite true," was all he said, but he had the satisfaction of seeing her bronze eyes widen with surprise. Of course, she quickly shifted her expression into an exaggerated pout that perfectly mimicked any of a dozen society misses. The final touch came when she coyly began fluttering her eyelashes at him.
So exact was her imitation that he might have laughed out loud. As it was, he merely clenched his jaw and focused on Penworthy.
"There is nothing she can do from the docks," Marcus said
curtly. "Harris does not go there."
"We do not know that Harris is the guilty one."
"He is the most likely candidate," Marcus returned.
Before Penworthy could speak, Fantine cut in again, apparently unable to keep silent for more than a few seconds. "Let him blunder after this Lord Harris, Penworthy. If my usual contacts cannot discover the culprit's identity, then I shall pay Ballast for the information. The worst Lord Chadwick can do is make the true villain more confident, thinking you have hired a bumbling idiot to chase him."
"Fantine," said Penworthy, his voice weary and soft, "you are not being helpful."
"And you are being ridiculous," she answered as she folded her arms. "You cannot think a starched-up popinjay could do more than bungle the entire affair."
Marcus held back a caustic retort, knowing she was baiting him. He was aware as well that despite the harpy's ramblings, Penworthy knew his true value. Still, he could not resist questioning the other man. "Do you seriously intend to allow her to investigate?"
Penworthy shrugged. "I know no one better."
"You know me."
"You have not said yes."
Marcus looked down, idly swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "My mother reminds me that when she was my age, her sons were entering Harrow."
Penworthy nodded. "An excellent school. I made many lifelong friends there."
Marcus did not respond, knowing that his mentor understood the problem, but was too polite to comment. The difficulty, of course, was that his mother wanted grandchildren. And his father wished Marcus would do his duty to continue the family name. That meant finding a wife and setting up his nursery, not embroiling himself in another sordid drama, especially one that might endanger his life, limb, and ability to procreate.
Then his eyes chanced to fall on Fantine's shapely leg. Her gown was in tatters, artfully designed to advertise her attributes without showing too much. She was clearly canny at her trade, whether actress or whore, and Penworthy would not put his faith in her for no reason. If she were remotely competent, he could refuse Penworthy with good conscience.
But the thought of William Wilberforce, a name synonymous with Christian piety, placing his life in her soiled hands frankly turned his stomach. At best, her blundering about would cause countless political embarrassments. At worst, she would expose herself to the villain.
The risks to Wilberforce and the nation aside, he could not allow her to take on the task. She would be killed within a week.
"Very well," he said. "I shall do it."
"Excellent," cried Penworthy, not nearly loud enough to drown out Fantine's groan. Then he returned to his desk, as if dismissing the entire matter from his mind. "I trust the two of you will not kill each other while coordinating your activities?"
Marcus looked up abruptly. "Coordinate? You cannot mean she will continue."
"Of course I shall continue!" she snapped. "I am your only hope of remaining alive." Then she was once again on her feet, stepping directly up to his friend. "Penworthy, please do not be a fool in this. He is a lord and an MP," she said, gesturing toward Marcus. "Surely he has someone who cares for him. His mother, if no one else. Do not put him into a situation he cannot handle. It is too dangerous."
It was some moments before Marcus understood she referred to him, and another moment before he realized that Penworthy appeared to be seriously considering her words.
It was too much, the perfect coup de grace on a ruined afternoon. It was bad enough to be insulted, harangued, and mocked by an actress who could not decide whether she was a strumpet or a lady, but to finally circumvent his principles in the interest of saving a cheap bawd only to have Penworthy think of pulling him off... It was insupportable!
"Penworthy," he said, setting down his glass with a click. "I will not work with her. I will not speak with her. In fact, I heartily intend never to look upon her again. Do not even think I shall budge on this."
"And I," she said, matching his bearing with her own arrogance, "will not risk either Wilberforce or myself with him strutting about!"
Her cry echoed through the room, but it did nothing to diminish his own position. It was now for Penworthy to decide who was the most appropriate person for the task.
Marcus had no doubt as to the outcome.
But Penworthy's response did not come immediately. He took his time, setting his hands on his desk with arthritic precision, slowly lifting his body from his chair until he stood and glared at them both. When he spoke, his voice vibrated with a low fury that seemed to come from deep within the aged frame.
"This matter has already taken up too much of my time. Hear me and hear me well. This is too important for the two of you to spend your time fighting. You will work together. You will coordinate your activities, and you bloody well will do it without botching or I shall have you both clapped in irons and locked in Newgate!"
Penworthy looked more fierce, more furious than Marcus had ever seen him before. But Marcus was not a future earl to no purpose. He had never been intimidated in his life, and he had no intention of starting now. He merely lounged backward against the sideboard and smiled at his dearest friend in the world.
"You would not dare," he said softly.
"Aye," she agreed, her own voice gentle. "You would not do that to me."
Penworthy, however, narrowed his gaze, his expression colder than Marcus had ever thought possible.
"Try me," was all he said.
For a long moment, all that could be heard was the nearly silent tick of the gilt clock on the mantel. Penworthy's glare shifted with measured pace between both Marcus and Fantine, his every muscle daring them to defy him.
It took less than a second for Marcus to realize that he had no prayer of winning this argument. Honor, duty, and loyalty all demanded he capitulate. If Penworthy persisted in the madness of using Fantine, and it certainly appeared that he intended to, then Marcus's only option was to try and mitigate the damages.
One look at Fantine's disgusted expression, and he knew she had come to the same conclusion. Although, apparently, in her arrogance, she thought it was he who would mismanage everything.
In short, the two of them would have to work together to save Wilberforce.
God help the poor MP.
Chapter 2
Fantine crouched low in the dirty gutter and cursed long and fluently, using words in as many different languages and cants as she could think of. When she was done, she made up new ones and gave them their own gruesome meanings. And every single one she rained down on Chadwick's head.
Too bad he was not there to hear her.
Lord Chadwick was late. And late in the rookeries could mean dead.
Fantine tugged at the dirty cap that covered her hair and silently wished she had not bound her breasts so tight. It was damned difficult to breathe. And her breeches were so thin they could split apart in a stiff breeze. She hated wearing these dull gray clothes and her street persona as the Rat, but it was the only way to meet with Ballast without risking being chained up in some dockside brothel. Of course, if his lordship did not show up soon, the entire affair with Ballast would go sour in any event.
But there was no help for it. She had agreed to work with him, so she folded her arms against the cold and continued to wait.
Long after her legs had gone numb and her face felt cracked with the cold, she finally spied him. Lord Chadwick was following a small boy, barreling around the corner with as much subtlety as a runaway carriage.
Gawd, she thought with a groan, his lordship was still handsome despite the muck now staining his clothing. Ever since she had first seen him, she knew his looks would trouble her. Lean, like a sword, and tall, his body appealed to her baser instincts in a way no one ever had. She saw no fat on him, no softness of any sort. Even at this distance, his muscles were well defined, easily contracting and releasing with his movements. She had no doubt he would best most men in a fair fight.
But if his body was at
tractive, it was nothing compared to his face. She could not see him clearly yet, but she recalled every moment of their meeting yesterday, especially the hard aristocratic angles of his jaw as he turned away from her in disdain. She remembered the way his clear blue eyes had gazed down his straight nose at her. Why, even his dusky blond hair had seemed to mock her with its rich luster, far more beautiful than her own short brown locks.
In short, he was handsome in every way, a lord of the realm with the hauteur to match. And he annoyed her. So she had tormented him in their first meeting, teasing and harassing him merely to find out how much it would take before the self-contained Lord Chadwick lost control of himself.
It never happened.
That disturbed her more than she cared to admit. If she could not push him to an emotional outburst, then she very much feared she could not manage him. In the end, he might actually be more in control than she.
So she watched with almost gleeful satisfaction as Chadwick ran through the rookeries following a small boy with freckles whom everyone called Nameless.
"Gi'e it to 'im good, Nameless," she whispered into the dark. Then she raised her chilled hand, flashing it open and closed in a pulse of pale flesh, barely visible through the dark gloom. His lordship did not see it, but the boy did, ducking his head in acknowledgment.
Nameless stopped barely a foot away, standing just to one side of a dripping overhang. Eventually his lordship joined the boy, his breathing surprisingly steady given what Nameless had put him through. Nevertheless, his lordship appeared worse for wear as he softly cursed the drip that splattered his forehead every second and a half.
"Can you not stand to one side, boy?"
"No, guv," lied the child. "Ain't no room."
With a barely muffled grumble, Chadwick grasped the thin boy and lifted him up, setting him gently on a barrel. He then stepped into the added space beneath the overhang. But even with the extra room, the drip still fell on his broad shoulder, adding its own color to the smeared muck already on his tattered coat.
"So where is she?" Chadwick said to the boy.
