The Rakehell Regency Romance Series Boxed Set 5

by MacMurrough, Sorcha

  "How long until we can start swilling gin?" she asked in what she hoped was a light, breezy tone.

  "As soon as it’s dark." He chewed a final crust of bread. Then he sighed. "All right. I agree. We warn the Rakehells through Antony, and tell him to be careful himself. So that means we have to go to the clinic. It's a bit risky, but we have some good odds on our side. There’s a big livery stable nearby. We can get in and out quickly, and head to the pub in Carnaby Market to see what Spenceans we can round up."

  Viola was already on her feet. "It sounds like a plan. Let's go."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Two more cab rides took Viola and Alistair to the livery stables further down the mews from the women's clinic run by the Rakehells.

  Viola had changed into her men’s garb again, and now crept along the alley feeling more exposed than she ever had in her life.

  She knew Alistair was right—too much was riding on them warning the Rakehells to entrust the message to any one person.

  George was still an unknown quantity. Lawrence was a good man but naive about British politics, having been away for so long in India. They would see him later, but in the meantime they could set the wheels in motion for their Radical set to beware.

  All went well until they entered the back door of the clinic, and slipped in behind the boiler.

  Viola could have sworn she heard something, like the soft whisper of a step.

  Then someone leapt on her, grabbing her around the waist and dragging her to his huge hard chest.

  A knife glittered, and she waited for the pain, the sensation of her life’s blood dripping away—

  "Don’t move, or the lad gets it." He shifted her weight slightly. "Lass, I should say."

  Viola fumed at the indignities to her person, though he wasn't handling her in a rough way.

  "Who the hell are you and why are the two of you breaking in here?" the gruff-voice stranger demanded.

  Alistair countered, "I could ask you the same thing."

  He stared at the man, huge, bald, and with a vast gold earring in one ear. His face was criss-crossed with scars, his teeth black, his stench foul.

  "I need to see Dr. Herriot. The lass is ill."

  "Feels lively enough to me. Actually, you’re looking pretty lively yourself for a dead man, Alistair Grant. Glad to see you’re all right."

  He blinked at the use of his name, and stared. His mouth dropped open as confusion gave way to recogntion. "Philip! God in Heaven! You’re alive!"

  "Not for long if we don’t keep our voices down," he returned curtly.

  "I thought you were a goner for sure." Despite himself, Alistair threw his arms around his friend and colleague, and hugged him hard.

  Philip patted him on the back awkwardly and looked smug. "Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated. The fire was terrible, but we got out through the upper attics."

  "How is it possible. I was sure you were all done for," Alistair said raggedly.

  "We broke through the partition into the other servants’ quarters. I’ve been at the brothel in Tavistock Crescent with Jasmine. I’ve been assembling anyone I know from the old days to try to find out who set fire to the house and blew up the office.

  "I wasn’t even sure you were alive. But I had a hunch. I have a few papers from the case we were supposed to have tried. Not much, but better than nothing. I took a chance that you were the new man, Goodwood. I tried to see you in Covent Garden, but you must have legged it."

  "Never mind about the bloody papers!" Alistair exclaimed impatiently. "What about Jasmine, the children?"

  "All fine. Antony got the children to safety. Jasmine is with me at the brothel, disguised as a tart. And when you see her huge shiner, don’t blame me. She deliberately smashed her eye into the door to make herself look more realistic and so she wouldn’t have to worry about the makeup washing off. Damned fine woman, my wife."

  "Don’t I know it. And may I introduce mine? Or soon to be. Viola, this is Philip Harewood Marshall, my indispensible junior."

  "Delighted, my dear," Philip said with a bow. "I know what Jonathan is going to say. He’ll rub his hands with glee and declare, ‘Another Rakehell married.’ Let me guess. You met in a brothel and she saved your life."

  "But how did you—"

  Philip flashed him a grin, puckering the hideous false scars even more deeply. "The same intuition that told me to get out of the house before it burned down."

  "But they found five bodies! A man, woman, and three children. How—"

  Philip nodded. "I needed to throw them off the scent. So gave them what they wanted to see. We got some help from the resurrection men. The same as you, I suspect."

  Alistair stared. "Now you’re really starting to scare me. You can sense all this somehow?"

  "Partly, but also because that friend of yours George filled me in on what he knew," he said with a grin to his wide-eyed friend. "We’ve been using the clinic to ferry information back and forth. Antony did get to Sebastian Morrison in time, and Antony and his assistant Oliver Neville made sure everyone disappeared who needed to, including that poor guard Bradford and your coach driver."

  He flashed a wicked smile. "But my mother always did reckon me part gipsy. Anyway, that isn’t important now. The question is why. What do you think is happening here?"

  Alistair highlighted his theory briefly.

  "Then we need to swill a bit of the old Stark Naked."

  "Oh no, you’re not coming," Alistair said in his most authoritative tone.

  "If anything, the two of us with this doxy here will make us safe as houses. If we can get her some women’s clothes, that is. We neither of us look like what we once were."

  Viola smiled. "I'm ready."

  He shook his head. "I can’t risk it. If anything happens to me—"

  "All the more reason to let me go," Philip argued.

  "No, you're alive, and I want to keep you that way. Besides, I know the ringleaders by sight. I have to see if I can try to make some sense out of this by talking to them. Too many people have died already for me to be timid about this now."

  "Very well, but I’m going with you, and don't bother to argue, mate. This is the best chance we might ever get to sort this all out before it's too late. Too many days have passed. Now that they think you’re dead and out of the way, and that this Mr. Goodwood is on their side, they have no reason to halt their plans, now do they?"

  "No, I suppose not," Alistair agreed uneasily.

  "So let’s go then. Time’s awasting. I’ll just pop in to tell Antony I found you after all. Damn, who was that spy who turned up?"

  "Castle, from the old days. Does that mean they might be on to you?"

  "Or you?"

  "Or George betrayed us," Viola said reluctantly.

  "Or he’s being betrayed himself."

  "Damn. Too many imponderables now," Philip said with a shake of his now-bald head. "The main thing is to warn the Rakehells. I’ll be right back."

  Philip wasted no time in speaking to Antony, then headed out the rear exit and got them a cab.

  Viola had in the meantime changed into her women’s garb. Showing a great deal more cleavage than was her wont, she sat across from the two men and listened quietly as they caught up on each other’s news.

  She had to admit she had been inclined to view all of Alistair’s friends as a bunch of stuffed shirts, but Philip was a revelation. Witty, urbane, but hard-edged, she could see he had had a tough life but risen above it. It made her feel ashamed of how she had carried on trying to make the best of things, but been resentful of those better off than herself.

  "So we go into the meeting, complain about the lack of work, the machines taking over our jobs, listen to what they have to say, and find out where Watson is?" Philip outlined.

  "That's as good a plan as I can come up with, unless you have a better idea."

  "Not at the moment."

  "We need to find the right pub, though. Hope you’re up for a
long walk."

  But they struck it lucky, for when they arrived at the Nag’s Head , they were just setting up some tables in the corner. They sat around the bar for a minute and caught a couple of names Alistair vaguely recognised.

  They moved into a corner seat, where Alistair proceeded to tiddle Viola in full view of the place, while she giggled happily.

  Philip got in on the act with the lower half of her body, and Viola steeled herself, saying under her breath, "Easy. It’s only a bit of play-acting."

  "You don’t have to be quite so enthusiastic, my dear chap," Alistair protested.

  "We always did aim to please in my old job. But point taken." He shifted his hand. "Just don’t tell my wife I forgot my manners."

  "Don't mention it."

  "But do give me some pointers once I'm married," Alistair said with a wink.

  "Er, I'm the virgin here, so perhaps I'm the one who should be getting the advice," she said with a pretty blush.

  "Pointers? Gladly. I have the feeling you'll need all the help you can get with this sprightly lass."

  "Now, look here—" they both protested in unison.

  "I'm joking," he said to them both. "You both look happy enough to me. So you'll both do just fine."

  With their kissing and cuddling, very few people paid any attention to the trio, who appeared to be getting more liquorous by the minute.

  Alistair poured their drinks into the spittoon when no one was looking, and strained his ears to catch every word.

  At one point Alistair went up to the bar for more beer and gin, and she could tell from his posture that he had discovered what he needed to know.

  He came back with the drinks and whispered, "Watson is in the Marshalsea."

  "Can we visit him?" Viola asked.

  "We can try. But we’re going to need a slight change of costume yet again."

  "Back to the clerk, I suppose?" she guessed.

  "Yes."

  "Or is this just an excuse to get me out of my skirt?" she laughed.

  "Guilty as charged." He kissed her hard.

  A few people in the bar nudged each other, and Philip said, "Drink up and off you go."

  "What about you?"

  "I’ll stay on, see if I catch wind of anyything else. Meet me at the second bench inside Vauxhall Gardens tomorrow at three and I’ll fill you in then."

  Alistair hesitated. "It might be too risky. Castle—"

  "Don’t worry. I’ll be careful."

  Alistair and Viola finished their drinks, Viola made a show of having a tiff with Philip, he went to the bar for more gin, and they left.

  They walked down to Oxford Street, or rather hobbled, for Alistair was so amorous of Viola he thought he was going to trip over himself, his desire was so huge and urgent.

  Then they stood on the corner to secure a cab. He was relieved when one finally stopped so he could have a few minutes’ rampant fondling without half of London looking on.

  "Are you sure we should have left Philip there?" she asked softly when he lifted his head some time later and she could form a coherent thought.

  He smoothed her skirt down over her knees once more.

  She immediately hoist it up again to start struggling into her gent’s clothes.

  "He has the common touch," Alistair sought to reassure her. "He’ll be all right. He’ll no doubt find out what we need to know one way or the other."

  "I hope so. I keep getting the feeling we’re really running out of time."

  He nodded. "I know. I can hear the clock ticking in my head. So let’s see what we know. Revenge for Peterloo, and so far as I can guess, at least a couple of people I recognise from Spa Fields in this up to their necks. That spy Castle up to no good, and me and Philip on the run. Obviously Home Office involvement. If my dream is anything to go by, and it’s been spot on each time, we're getting closer. Fields, Castle, it all make sense. Henry too."

  "Ray."

  "What?

  "What about Ray?"

  "First or last name," he said with a shrug. "Nothing yet, but it might come to—"

  "Unless..." She pondered for a moment in silence while she tried to fasten her trousers in the jiggling coach.

  "What?"

  "My brother. And George. There’s something a bit off about all this. You said Castle was a former criminal saved from the gallows."

  He nodded."That’s right."

  "Well, then so is Sebastian. And possibly even George."

  "What, you mean they work for Sidmouth as well?" Alistair asked in surprise.

  She shook her head. "I don’t think so, actually. Sebastian is an expert at languages. And even though he's said to be fluent in French, even he admits that George is better. What does that tell you?" she said, revealing some of the truth to him at last.

  Alistair's brows knit. "Hmm. George is a man of many talents for a pimp."

  "Castle. Ray. Castlereagh."

  Alistair gaped. "So Sebastian really did stumble onto something big."

  "I think so."

  Alistair nodded. "I would have to agree. Shocking though it may be, they must be spies for the Foreign Office. And they are still working for him because even though the war with Napoleon is over, Castlereagh has something hanging over them both. George is too honest to just let us go like lambs to the slaughter. And he obviously rates Sebastian highly as a friend.

  "But this terrifies me now. What on earth could be so big it would be worth killing so many people for, including one of their own men?"

  "But maybe it’s not so many," she suggested, as she finished putting on the last of her clerk's clothing, while he bundled her women's garments together into a tight roll. "Perhaps it was just a sequence of events which got out of control. You stumbled onto it as well, and they sought to silence you. If you hadn’t gone to Newgate that night, found Sebastian or me, you and Philip would have been safe."

  "Now we can’t be sure—"

  "And you could be right, it could have been far worse," she said with a shiver. "That dream of yours."

  "And you know, Lord Sidmouth’s first name is Henry. It’s all starting to fit together. It’s connected with the Rakehells as well as myself, but I really have no idea why—"

  "And George and Sebastian won't say. But I agree with you. There's something about this man Castle being on the scene that reeks of bad news."

  "Aye, but I still have no idea—"

  She sighed, and finished tying her cravat. "Then let’s hope Watson does. Otherwise we could all end up dead anyway."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Alistair and Viola entered the gates of the grim Marshalsea Debtors’ Prison a short time later, and he introduced them as Mr. Goodwood and his assistant Tom Morris.

  "’Tis awfully late to be visiting," the turnkey complained.

  "I know, my good man, but I feel sure you wouldn’t want to keep a busy man like me out here on a night like this. And I believe this will recompense you for your troubles. If you could send someone across to get some hot pies for myself and helper here, and Mr. Watson, of course, I would be doubly grateful."

  "Aye, I will, sir, thank ye kindly," the gaoler said, pocketing the money and the generous bribe. He tugged his forelock and vanished.

  Within a few minutes they were in the visitors’ room reserved for the solicitors’ consultations. Viola sat listening to the wind howling in the gloomy old building as they waited for Watson to be brought up.

  When he arrived he looked at them both in blank confusion. Alistair lied about his name but told him quite sincerely that he wanted to assist him in terms of debt relief.

  Watson was glad, but cautious. "And what would I have to do for this money, exactly?"

  "Ah, here are the pies, and some good strong ale as well, I warrant. Here you are, eat up, eat up."

  Watson’s hunger got the better of his need to question Alistair, and he tucked in with a will. Viola took one pie, and broke off a quarter, then gave the rest to Watson. She also waited until he h
ad taken a good long swig of his drink before taking a sip herself.

  As soon as they were sure they were alone and would not be interrupted, Alistair leaned forward and said, "Do you recognise me? Alistair Grant, from your trial at Spa Fields?"

  "Aye, aye, I do."

  "We need your help."