No—his acquiescence to her involvement stemmed from his understanding that being there was important to her, and that as she would fight, and indeed demand, to be present, opposing her would simply be a waste of time.
She appreciated his insight, but was nevertheless stunned. In her experience, gentlemen rarely knew where to draw their protective line.
He’d been mulling something over; now he glanced up and met her eyes. “I was thinking of disguising myself as a drunken tramp. I would pretend to fall asleep on one of the front pews and snore. I should warn you, however, that I won’t be fit to be seen with you—well, not you as Miss Tabitha Makepeace.”
She raised her brows. “Ah—but what about being seen with a drab and downtrodden woman, slumped in one of the rear pews and weeping silently?”
“Can you pass yourself off as a woman of the lower orders?”
“I’ve had my maid collect clothes from the other women on our staff. Together they’ve assembled an outfit from their castoffs. It’s utterly drab, dull, and depressing—exactly the sort of attire no one will pay the slightest heed to. In it, I’ll be invisible.”
He looked skeptical, but didn’t argue, merely suggested, “You’ll need to dust your hair to dull the shine, and, most importantly, dirty your face—your skin glows like pearl-nacre. If you don’t dim it, it will give you away at a glance.”
She nodded. “I’ve got mittens to wear on my hands, so they won’t give me away either.”
“Good.” He paused, then went on, “So our disguises are settled. Now we need to decide how to get there.” He glanced at her. “No jarvey will take us up, not looking like that, and I can hardly drive us in my curricle.”
“Gifford. He’ll be delighted to be a part of this, and he knows the city’s lanes well.”
Sebastian hesitated, then nodded. “All right. I’ll be outside the rear door of your parents’ townhouse tomorrow just after ten o’clock. We’ll need Gifford to drive us in a cart—you up on the seat beside him, and me sitting in the bed. He can take us to that part of Fleet Street. I’ll slip off the cart before he reaches the church, approach on foot, and go in. You stay with Gifford while he drives past the church, on a little way, then turns and comes back again. You then hop down and leave him. Pretending to be overcome by grief, you enter the church and sit in the back, and weep. That way, we’ll arrive independently and should both be in position by eleven o’clock.”
Eyes narrowed, imagining it, she asked, “Why so early?”
“Because the blackmailer, too, might come early to take up a position within the church to watch Rothbury leave his payment. If we’re already there, they’re less likely to imagine we have any interest in them.”
“Hmm …” After a moment, she nodded and refocused on him. “It sounds like between us we have an excellent plan.”
He inclined his head. “Dare I say it? We make an excellent team.”
She grinned, then glanced away, toward a group of young ladies and gentlemen who came bustling in, the mummies their goal.
He rose and offered his hand. “I believe our purpose here is accomplished.”
She sighed, gave him her hand, and let him pull her to her feet. “I’d much rather remain here with the mummies, but we’re promised to Lady Hawthorne for luncheon, then your aunts expect us in Curzon Street for afternoon tea.”
Winding her arm in his, he turned her to the door. “I admit that when I suggested we use a betrothal as our cover, I had no idea that the social obligations of an affianced couple were so onerous.”
“Well now you know.” Head rising, Tabitha strolled beside him. “And just think, after this is all over and we dissolve our engagement, you’ll have to do it all over again with whichever young lady you choose as your true bride.”
Sebastian glanced at her, then faced forward. And grunted noncommittally.
They were both in position in the Church of St. Clement Danes when the city’s bells tolled eleven o’clock the next morning. Slumped on his side in the front pew, an empty bottle of blue ruin on the floor alongside, Sebastian breathed heavily, steadily, occasionally interrupting the rhythm with a snort.
He’d been in position when Tabitha had entered. He hadn’t been able to see her, but had noted her footsteps. To his surprise, she’d come to the front of the church, to the carved bar at the bottom of the steps before the altar. She’d started to kneel, clearly intending to pray, but then had noticed him lying there.
She’d hesitated.
He’d given a louder, snuffling snort, from beneath his lashes had watched her eyes widen. Clutching an old cloth bag to her middle, all but bowed over it, she’d turned and scuttled back up the aisle.
He’d listened, and as they’d arranged, she’d taken up residence in one of the back pews.
He’d had to grin approvingly, albeit inwardly, at such effective improvisation; it had allowed her to check on him, simultaneously giving her reason—had anyone been already watching—to retreat to the rear.
He was confident they were both thoroughly and effectively disguised. He appeared utterly disreputable, bedraggled, and worn. The old coat Wright had found for him smelled worse with every passing minute. Even the boots on his feet had been resurrected from some junk heap; if it rained, he’d have wet soles.
Somewhat to his surprise, Tabitha was equally unrecognizable. Not content with dusting her hair, she’d frizzed it out so it formed a knotty and unkempt corona about her head, over which she’d jammed a plaid cap that had seen much better days. Her mismatched layers of petticoats, skirts, and threadbare coat screamed lowly seamstress or menial worker. But it was her performance that had most impressed him—her downcast air, the droop of her shoulders, her shuffling walk—the way she held herself as if fearing a blow at any time. If he hadn’t known it was an act, he would have felt … even more protective than he did.
Every instinct he possessed had urged him to forbid her participation, but … he was playing a long game, and gaining her trust was imperative.
Showing her that he could—and would—allow her reasonable leeway to participate in any activity as long as she was adequately safe was essential, and as he was there and had no intention of letting her out of his orbit, she was and would remain safe today.
He lay apparently comatose as the city’s bells tolled eleven times. He continued to lie largely unmoving on the hard pew as the minutes ticked by.
As far as he could tell, no one entered the church to surreptitiously take up a watching brief. The floors were stone flags; it was difficult to avoid at the very least scuffing a sole. But no sound beyond the occasional muted sob from the rear pews reached him.
Then the main door of the church was pushed open. Someone hesitated on the threshold. A long moment passed, then the door was pushed shut and heavy male footsteps paced slowly down the aisle.
Rothbury.
Unable to see Sebastian lying in the pew, his lordship walked to the front of the nave, then across, away from Sebastian, to the baptismal font set to one side. If Rothbury had glanced directly behind him, he would have seen Sebastian then, but intent on the font, he didn’t look that way. From beneath his lashes, Sebastian watched his lordship glance instead toward the rear of the church, then he swiftly raised the font’s heavy lid, pushed an oilskin-wrapped packet inside the bowl, and silently replaced the lid.
Rothbury glanced again at the rear pews. What he saw seemed to reassure him. He looked back at the font, then walked, to all appearances calmly, past it to the church’s side door. He pushed it open and went out. The door closed behind him.
Tension rose. Sebastian lay still, slumped and breathing slowly. He heard few sounds from the rear of the church; he pictured Tabitha wearily slumped, eyes closed—waiting as he was.
Minutes ticked past. Fifteen at a guess. The bells tolled midday, then the peals faded away.
He was starting to itch with the need to go and see what Rothbury had left in the font when the side door was hauled open.
>
Sebastian forced his limbs to stillness, forced his breathing to remain slow and deep.
The door remained open as footsteps—quiet, stealthy—approached the font.
A boy came into view. Maybe twelve years old. He saw Sebastian but was clearly accustomed to such sights; his gaze darted more often toward the rear of the church, but he didn’t halt. He climbed onto the stone step surrounding the font, stretched up and shifted the lid.
Reached in and retrieved the packet Rothbury had placed there.
Without examining it, the boy stuffed the packet inside his thin jacket, then shoved the font’s lid back on, turned, and hurried for the side door.
He didn’t look back as he went through it, barely pausing to shove the heavy door half closed before starting off down the pavement.
Sebastian reached the door before the boy had taken ten paces.
A whoosh of limp skirts heralded Tabitha; she peeked past him. “That’s him. Let’s go.”
He caught her hand and together they walked briskly out of the church, falling in behind the boy. Their quarry didn’t run but every now and then he took a few quick steps, as if he wanted to run but had been warned not to do so.
They followed as he made his way, not into the City, but in the opposite direction.
“Covent Garden,” Sebastian whispered as the boy headed up Catherine Street. They followed their quarry past the Theater Royal, past the market, closing the distance as he plunged into the labyrinth of narrow lanes beyond.
Eventually he turned down a minor lane, halted outside a door halfway down, and rapped briskly.
Sebastian pushed Tabitha into the deep shadows cast by the overhang above another doorway. The boy glanced back, but didn’t notice them. Sebastian doubted he would recognize them even if he did; they were in no way remarkable in that area.
The boy jigged nervously, but then the door opened and he straightened. A woman appeared in the doorway; neither old nor young, she was more neatly and cleanly dressed than seemed the norm for the neighborhood. The boy spoke, then held out his hand.
The woman showed him something in her left palm, then closed that hand into a fist and held it at shoulder height while she extended her other hand, fingers beckoning.
Shifting, the boy drew out the packet he’d retrieved from the font. The exchange—the packet for the coins the woman presumably had in her hand—took place.
Tabitha moved forward.
Sebastian softly swore and hauled her back.
Just as the boy turned to retrace his steps.
Sebastian twisted around, set Tabitha against the door, bent his head and kissed her.
Kept kissing her as the boy’s footsteps passed behind his back.
Fought desperately to keep his mind on the job, on this mission, not the other running beneath it. Fought to keep his focus on the lane around them, and not let himself be distracted by the temptation of her delectable lips, by the succulent promise of her mouth.
He wavered, but managed to hold his line. When the boy turned the corner and his footsteps faded, he reluctantly broke the kiss and raised his head.
Even in the dimness, he saw Tabitha blink. Twice. Then she frowned. “What was that for?”
“So he didn’t see you—or me—when he passed.” Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that the woman had retreated into the house and shut the door.
He felt Tabitha’s small hands flatten on his chest. She pushed, and he stepped back.
Her gaze locked on the closed door. Her lips set in a grim line. “Right. Let’s go.”
Tabitha started forward again, only—again—to be hauled back by Sebastian.
“No.” He breathed the word against her ear, sending thoroughly distracting shivers down her spine.
That kiss and its effects had been bad enough. “What now?” she inquired crossly. “That woman is the blackmailer. Let’s go and confront her.”
His arms snug around her, from close quarters he met her gaze. “Is she? And should we?”
She frowned. “Speak in whole sentences. What do you mean?”
His lips twitched, but he sobered immediately. “I mean, is she the blackmailer, or an accomplice? If we confront her, will the blackmailer have time to escape and flee? Also, if we accost her now, without knowing who she is or how she’s connected to the blackmailer—or if she is the blackmailer, how she came to learn your friends’ secrets—what are our chances of effectively scaring her off?” He looked into her eyes. “I presume that’s what we want—to scare her off so she gives up blackmailing your friends?”
Her hands clasped on the steely arms around her waist, she nodded. “But I would prefer that whatever we do makes her—or the blackmailer—desert their chosen field of employment altogether.”
He nodded. “That’s my feeling, too. To be sure of doing that, we need to learn that woman’s name, learn if she’s the blackmailer herself, or if someone else is, then we need to learn the connections between her, the blackmailer, and your friends well enough to understand how she, or the blackmailer, became privy to their secrets. Most important of all, we need to be certain that she, or whoever she’s working for, are a single entity, and not part of some wider scheme.” He looked down, into her face. “Once we know all that, we’ll be able to act, and be sure of achieving our goals without risking your friends’ secrets being aired.”
She grimaced, but nodded, and reluctantly stepped away from him. She glanced at the closed door across the lane. “So how do we learn her name?”
He grinned and slouched back against the wall beside the doorway. “We wait. It shouldn’t take long.”
Half an hour later, a woman burdened with a heavy basket halted outside one of the neighboring houses and appeared to search for a key.
“Stay here.”
Sebastian left Tabitha on the words and strode quickly across the lane. He gruffly hailed the woman. She turned to him; a low-voiced discussion ensued, then Sebastian gave the woman several coins, and returned to Tabitha. He took her arm and urged her up the lane.
She went, but asked, “Well?”
“Our woman’s name is Elaine Mackay. She hasn’t lived there long enough for the locals to know much of her—keeps to herself, as her neighbor informed me.” He met her gaze. “Does her name ring any bells?”
She wracked her brain, but had to shake her head. “Not even a chime.”
Stepping out of the lane they headed back to Fleet Street. Gifford would have returned and would be waiting near the church to take them back to Bedford Square.
Once on Fleet Street, Tabitha spotted the cart drawn into the curb ahead. She glanced at Sebastian, saw he’d noticed, too. “So,” she said, “now we know her name, how do we learn the rest?”
Chapter Four
They set out in the Makepeaces’ traveling carriage early the next morning. Tabitha had cried off the balls they’d been scheduled to attend the previous night and the two following on the grounds that she had to—simply had to—make a dash into the country to speak with four close friends.
“I’m sure,” she said, “that everyone assumes that the subject I wish to discuss with them is our wedding.”
Seated opposite her, Sebastian murmured, “You’re quite adept at letting people suppose what they will.”
“It’s easier that way. I just hope Suzanne, Caroline, Jacinta, and Constance can tell us who Elaine Mackay is.”
“And how she came to know their secrets.”
Tabitha glanced out of the window. “That’s Reigate ahead.” Knowing that the Rothburys, mère and père, were still in London, they’d made first for that family’s country house in Surrey. Suzanne, the Rothburys’ daughter, had reportedly retired there to calm nerves overstressed by her recent engagement.
Half an hour later, welcomed by Suzanne and drawn into a pleasant parlor to partake of refreshments, Sebastian stood looking out of a wide window, taking in the vista of the gardens, and listened while, behind him, seated with Suzanne on the chaise b
efore the fireplace, Tabitha received her friend’s enthusiastic congratulations, then doggedly led her to the vital point.
“Elaine Mackay?” Suzanne paused, then said in a breathless, nervy rush, “Oh, yes! The hairdresser Mama hired to do my hair for my engagement ball. She came highly recommended.”
Tabitha excused them soon after, saying they had to get on as they had a number of others to call on that day. Suzanne stood on the front steps and waved them off. Glancing back, Sebastian thought she cut a lonely figure.
Tabitha, again opposite, humphed. “Suzanne’s something of a social gadabout. Being stuck alone in the country, away from all the fuss and froth of town, is hard on her.”
“She’s not really suffering from any nervous condition, is she?”
“No. She’s suffering because of the blackmailer.” Tabitha fixed Sebastian with a direct look. “I’ve observed that many ladies chatter to their hairdressers, often talking before them without a normal reserve. Elaine Mackay might well have heard enough to guess her victims’ secrets, at least well enough for her purposes.”
He nodded. “As you say, she wouldn’t need to know everything, just enough to make them believe she did.”
“She might even have guessed, but not known her conjecture was correct until the victim consented to pay.”
“Indeed.” He leaned back against the squabs. “As she was the one to whom the payment was taken, and as we now know she was likely to be the source of the illicit knowledge, then it’s possible, thank God, that we’re dealing only with her—a single blackmailer—and nothing more convoluted.”
Tabitha frowned. “But we’ll need to check with at least one other victim to be sure she’s the only hairdresser involved.”
He met her gaze. “We only know of four victims. We’ll need to check with them all to confirm that Elaine Mackay is the only blackmailing hairdresser currently active, that she doesn’t have a few like-minded sisters also in the business.”
Tabitha raised her brows high. “What a thought.”
They stopped at Leatherhead for a late luncheon, then she dutifully guided Gifford to the Winden house, near Weybridge. There they learned from Caroline Winden that she, too, had had her hair arranged by Elaine Mackay prior to her engagement ball. It was Caroline who had first told Tabitha of the blackmailer; on thinking back, Caroline recalled a whispered conversation she’d had with her sister while Elaine Mackay had been in the room. Pale, but resolute, Caroline met Tabitha’s gaze. “That’s when she would have heard of it—I remember Pansy teasing me about how my tastes in gentlemen had changed.”
It Happened One Season Page 7
