by Lucy Ashford
Before she could reply, he was snapping his fingers for a waiter and murmuring his order.
Then he shifted his chair closer. ‘Do you know,’ he confided, ‘I shall always think of you as Athena, goddess of wisdom. But I would be truly honoured to know your real name.’
‘It’s Rosalie,’ she said.
‘Charming. And here are our drinks.’ He was putting money on the waiter’s tray and passing her a chilled glass. ‘Now, I am so glad,’ he went on with fervour, ‘to learn that you were only at that place for one night! Indeed, my own visit was, as you no doubt noticed, sadly curtailed.’
In the background, the chatter of all the guests rose and fell; her pulse was racing because here, perhaps, was a heaven-sent chance. ‘I noticed you seemed dismayed, my lord, to meet Captain Stewart there. May I ask why you dislike him so very much?’
She saw a shadow cross his features. ‘Do we really have to talk about that dissipated wretch? Couldn’t I just advise you to keep as far away from him as possible? The man is a disgrace.’
Her pulse thudded. A disgrace … ‘I’m aware, of course,’ she said steadily, ‘that he extorts money from former soldiers.’
He’d been sipping his wine, but now he spluttered a little. ‘What?’
‘I know he’s a rackrenter,’ Rosalie explained. ‘Letting out squalid accommodation.’
‘Ah. You’ve heard all about that.’ He ordered fresh drinks from the same waiter, then leaned closer, bringing with him the strong scent of his citrus cologne. ‘You’ll realise, then,’ he went on, ‘that it’s no wonder I and other men of decency cannot tolerate the sight of him! There’s also—no, I really mustn’t talk of it.’
‘Please.’ Rosalie gulped too much lemonade in hope that it would ease the sudden dryness of her throat. ‘Please tell me.’
He pursed his lips. ‘Very well, since I see you have no illusions about the scoundrel. I’m afraid that Alec Stewart is an utter reprobate. Ex-soldiers, ladies of the night—he keeps company with the lowest of the low.’
Ladies of the night. Oh, no. If she’d had any doubts, they were banished in that instant. She put her hand to her forehead, which throbbed with the beginnings of a headache. Linette …
‘I’m extremely sorry,’ said Lord Maybury with concern. ‘I do not mean to offend you, Rosalie, but you are a woman of intelligence and you saw him yourself, at the Temple of Beauty.’
‘You were there also,’ said Rosalie.
Something—some alertness—flickered across his smooth face. ‘I had certain enquiries to make. That was all. I was not there to watch the show—you might have noticed. But I believe Captain Stewart was.’
Yes. Yes, he was. She was going to say so, but her throat was still horribly dry and now her head was starting to swim. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘so stupid of me, but I really am beginning to feel rather unwell.’
Lord Maybury leaned over her, concerned. ‘Indeed, you look quite pale. I hope I haven’t upset you by speaking of that unpleasant man, Captain Stewart. You were most spirited to fulfil your wager by appearing there and now we will say no more of it. Finish that drink and I’ll take you home.’
She got to her feet and was horrified at how unsteady she felt. ‘I really will be quite all right, I assure you …’
‘Do you have someone here who can take you home?’
‘No, I will find a cab …’
She’d dropped her reticule under the table; he bent to retrieve it for her. ‘Correction—I will fetch you a cab. No arguments, please, Rosalie.’
He escorted her down to the entrance hall, where he brought her cloak to her and left her while he went outside to find her a hackney. She saw a seat and rested there with her hands to her throbbing temples.
How could she even for one minute have been taken in that night at Dr Barnard’s by Alec Stewart’s façade of integrity? How ever was she going to deal with him? Why did she feel so ill? This is ridiculous. I will be all right soon. I must simply be tired.
Chapter Ten
Lord Maybury came frowning back into the hall. ‘No sign of any hackneys at all and it’s started to rain, so it could be some time before we find one. Now, I will brook no argument, my dear Rosalie; my own driver will take you home.’
‘No, really.’ Everything seemed to be getting worse and worse. She shook her head, but he was already adjusting her cloak around her shoulders as he led her outside.
‘I absolutely insist,’ he said firmly. It had begun to rain hard and Piccadilly was crowded with pedestrians and vehicles. ‘My carriage should be just down the road. Stay here, will you, while I tell the driver to bring it round?’
She watched him stride off. Then she blinked. Of all people, there was Biddy, hurrying towards her along the wet, crowded street, with her brother Matt at her heels. What on earth …? And Biddy was holding Katy in her arms.
‘Biddy! Matt! Oh, Katy darling!’
The small child, wrapped up in a cloak against the rain and clutching her rag doll, looked fretful. ‘Want Mama. Want Mama.’
Quickly Rosalie gathered Katy close. ‘Poor lamb, hush now … Biddy, what are you doing here with Katy, at this hour?’
Biddy looked breathless and terrified. ‘There’s been a fire! At Miss Helen’s house!’
‘A fire!’
‘Yes,’ said Matt grimly. ‘Started deliberately, the constables reckon!’
Oh, no. ‘Tell me everything.’
‘Miss Helen and the children got out in time,’ Biddy went on in a trembling voice. ‘My brothers Matt and Dickon and little Joe did everything they could to put it out, but by the time the fire engine arrived, the place was a ruin! Mr Francis, he came straight away, and she and little Toby have gone to stay with him and his sister. But little Katy was crying so hard for you, Miss Rosalie, that Helen said to take her to you and to tell you to join her at Mr Francis’s house in St John’s Square, see.’
No. Rosalie’s stomach clenched in anguish. Not possible—for this fire must be the work of Alec Stewart, continuing to wreak revenge for her allegations about his rackrenting. And if he started to guess that she knew about him and Linette, he would be even more dangerous. Rosalie could not abuse Helen’s friendship still further by endangering her in her new-found place of safety with Mr Wheeldon.
Then Biddy was curtsying wide-eyed, because Lord Maybury was back, his gaze immediately fastening on Katy in Rosalie’s arms. He didn’t look pleased. ‘What’s this?’ he said rather abruptly.
‘Some bad news,’ breathed Rosalie. ‘There’s been a fire at the house where I live.’
He stepped back in shock. ‘I’m so sorry. How terrible.’
Rosalie said quickly to Biddy, ‘Please tell Helen I’ll be all right. Tell her to look after herself and Toby; I’ll send word to her in the morning.’
Matt was stepping forwards, squaring his broad shoulders. ‘Now, Miss Helen said we was to see you safe to Mr Francis’s house, isn’t that so, Biddy? Or you could stay with us.’
Rosalie summoned the last of her strength. ‘Thank you, but my mind’s quite made up. I’ll find lodgings close by.’ There were several small, respectable hotels round here and she and Katy would be safe enough, for one night at least. But what next? Her head was reeling.
‘I’ll be off, then, and tell Miss Helen you’re fine.’ But Biddy still looked worried. ‘Oh …’ and she reached inside her cloak ‘… Miss Helen sent this for you.’ She handed over a folded note, which Rosalie pushed in her pocket; then, darting one last shy glance at Stephen, Biddy hurried away with Matt.
‘Rosalie,’ Stephen was saying, ‘what dreadful news about this fire! For the sake of your child, you must allow me to take you straight to my house in Brook Street, where my staff will see that you have everything you need, both of you.’ He reached out to touch Katy’s hand, but Katy started crying.
Rosalie was shaking her head. ‘No. I cannot accept. My intention is to find lodgings.’ She was already reaching in her reticule for her purse. B
ut cold fingers of dread, as well as nausea, were stealing down her spine. It had gone. Her purse, with all her money, had gone.
Just then, a fast-moving hackney cab splashed through a puddle close to the kerb and sent water flying up to soak Rosalie’s cloak and boots. Katy was crying bitterly in her arms.
Stephen put his hand on Rosalie’s shoulder. ‘This is no time to go looking for lodgings with the child. Surely you realise she could catch a dangerous chill if she’s out in this rain for much longer. Look, there’s my coach.’ He was already guiding her towards an elegant vehicle with a coat of arms emblazoned on its doors.
What he said was all too true; Katy was shivering and sobbing, ‘Mama, Mama.’ Rosalie was feeling dizzy now, as well as sick.
Stephen was calling curtly to his driver. ‘Take us to Brook Street.’
And he climbed in after her, watching her from the corner of his eye as the carriage rolled away.
This was his chance. His chance to investigate this girl who looked like the other one. This girl who, even in her drab, damp-stained clothes, was a tempting little beauty. The gin he’d paid the waiter to slip in her drink had achieved its purpose swiftly in fuddling her wits. His man Markin had done well, too, in getting information from the slut Sal that the girl had a sister who was dead. Markin had also got the fire started at exactly the right time.
There was just one problem. No one, unfortunately, had made any mention of this woman Rosalie having a child—Stephen detested children. But that was a minor issue. He had her in his power, and now was his chance to find out exactly what mischief she might be about to stir up.
Alec Stewart had spent the afternoon at his father’s house, gathering up the possessions the Earl had ordered him to remove.
The Earl had gone to Carrfields with his young wife and the big house was quiet as Alec sorted through his various maps and campaign diaries, his bound volumes of war sketches done by talented comrades and some books about eighteenth-century art that he’d inherited from his mother. She’d died in a hunting accident when Alec was ten and the whole house, for Alec, still bore the stamp of her loving devotion to her family. Many of the paintings around the house had been hers.
Jarvis, his father’s loyal steward, had helped him to pack up some biographies of the commanders Alec had idolised in his youth. ‘A pity we see you here so rarely nowadays, sir,’ Jarvis had said gravely.
‘My father’s got a new wife, Jarvis. Things were bound to change.’
Jarvis’s silence was telling.
‘Have you heard from Carrfields yet?’ Alec asked.
‘Indeed, sir, they arrived safely. And the longer they stay there, the better.’
Another enigmatic remark. ‘The country air will certainly do my father’s health good,’ agreed Alec. But he reckoned that wasn’t what loyal old Jarvis meant.
He’d filled up three packing crates and Jarvis had promised to have them sent over to Two Crows Castle the next morning. ‘My thanks.’ Alec nodded. ‘I’ll be back for more in a day or so.’ He was already on his way to the door, when something in the entrance hall caught his eye. He halted. ‘Do you see that painting, Jarvis?’
‘Which one, sir?’
‘The oil, of the British troops at Blenheim.’ Alec stepped closer. ‘It looks different. Brighter. Or has it always been like that?’
‘Lord Stephen’s been telling your father he ought to get some of those old paintings cleaned, sir. In fact, Lord Stephen’s been seeing to it himself over the last few months, taking them off to be restored. That one’s just come back.’
Alec frowned. Restored? But his father had always declared that he liked the patina of the old oils …
‘You’ll realise, Master Alec, that I had no choice but to agree,’ Jarvis was saying anxiously.
That evening Alec had had a fencing lesson and was tidying away his equipment when Garrett came in. ‘One of the lads has got some news of a poetry reading in Piccadilly, Captain.’
Alec almost laughed. ‘Poetry! God’s teeth, why should that be any concern of mine? And confound it, Garrett, didn’t I tell you to get rid of that dog weeks ago?’ The big golden mongrel bounded happily up to Alec, wagging its tail.
‘His name’s Ajax, Captain. And I keep tellin’ him to go, but he won’t.’
‘He’ll eat us out of house and home!’
‘I’m payin’ for his food myself, Captain.’
‘Anyone ever told you you’re a fool, Garrett?’
‘I know that, Captain.’
Sighing, Alec continued putting away his foils. ‘This poetry reading you mentioned. I can only assume there was some purpose in your raising that unlikely subject?’
‘Well, yes, Captain. The girl’s there, you see—the one that was writin’ those lies about you and this place, the other week.’
Alec went still. ‘Mrs Rowland?’
‘Aye, Mrs Rowland. You ordered us to keep an eye on her, since we told you about that printing press of her friend’s bein’ all busted.’
‘Indeed,’ muttered Alec. ‘Busted, as you put it, by some enemy Mrs Rowland’s made with her scurrilous writing, no doubt.’
For God’s sake, she looked for trouble! She’d been blatantly on stage at the Temple of Beauty, half-clad, then she’d written some vile stuff directed at him and confronted him with a whole pack of lies in his own home. Yet she was so young, so vulnerable, despite her bold defiance … The dog came up to him, wagging its tail, and Alec absently stroked its head. ‘So you’ve discovered she’s at a poetry reading. Is that the sum of your information, Garrett?’
‘Not quite, Captain. We’ve got an informer there—a cousin of McGrath’s—who was hired as a waiter, ‘cos there was refreshments, see. And he’s told us that someone else you know is at this lit’rary faradiddle. Your brother. He and the girl seem pretty friendly.’
Alec’s hand went very still on the rapier he held. Despite her defiant words to him, the little widow knew Stephen!
‘What do you expect me to do, Garrett? My opinion of her is already pretty low,’ he answered, sliding the rapier back into the wall rack. ‘Finding out that she’s a friend of Stephen’s does nothing to alter that.’
Red-haired Sergeant McGrath had come in also. ‘There was somethin’ odd, Captain, if they’re friends,’ McGrath offered. ‘My cousin told me your brother ordered some gin to be put in the girl’s lemonade. And she was startin’ to look a bit sick, apparently.’
Damn it. Alec gave up hope of a quiet evening. ‘Saddle up my horse, Garrett. This place is in Piccadilly, you say?’
‘You will remember she ain’t no friend of yours, won’t you, Captain?’ Garrett warned. ‘Remember that nasty stuff she wrote about you …’
‘I’ll not forget it, never fear,’ Alec gritted, heading for the door. ‘That’s why I’m going to see what they’re both up to. Oh, and saddle a horse for yourself, too.’
‘Why’s that, Captain?’
‘You’re coming with me.’
Pulling on his greatcoat, Alec left. And Garrett muttered to McGrath, ‘I hope, I do hope, that our Captain’s not laying himself open to the tricks of another sweet-faced whore.’
‘Now you know and I know, my lad,’ replied McGrath, ‘that our Captain’s no fool in dealing with the muslin company … unless you’re talkin’ about that society lassie with all the money who ditched him just before Waterloo?’
Garrett snorted. ‘Her? The bird-witted little Lady Emilia? He was well rid of her and he knew it. No. It was someone else I was thinkin’ of. Someone who’s a real bundle of wickedness and is out to make more, unless I’m very much mistaken.’
‘Who—?’
But Garrett had hurried on after Alec, leaving Sergeant McGrath scratching his head in bewilderment.
‘Wait,’ Rosalie said urgently to Stephen as his carriage turned into Holborn. She clutched Katy tighter. ‘Can we stop? Please? I—I don’t feel well.’ Thanks to the lurching of this heavy coach, she was actually feeling desperat
ely sick.
‘You’re just cold, my dear,’ Stephen said soothingly to Rosalie. Solicitously he placed a plaid rug across her knees. ‘We’ll soon be at my house, you and your little daughter.’
Katy hid her face from him. Rosalie tried to say, ‘She’s not my daughter.’ But something choked in her throat and her head was swimming. ‘I need fresh air now. I must get out …’
Suddenly she realised that the carriage had indeed come to a juddering halt, but not at Stephen’s bidding. As Stephen exclaimed, ‘What in God’s name—?’ Rosalie was already on her feet and heading unsteadily for the door with Katy in her arms. It was opened before she could reach it by a tall, rain-soaked man who looked blazingly angry.
Alec Stewart was here. Alec Stewart, from Two Crows Castle, had stopped the coach. She saw suddenly that his horse was close by, held by none other than Eyepatch, who looked at her balefully. Stephen’s driver up on his box was swearing, but Alec rapped out a few choice words that silenced him utterly.
Rosalie’s stomach was roiling. With Katy still in her arms, she stumbled down, swaying. Alec grabbed the child and held her very tight as Rosalie leaned her hand against the side of the carriage and vomited into the gutter.
The gin, thought Alec. He cursed under his breath. Garrett had warned him that Stephen had doctored her drink. But no one had warned Alec that she had the child with her. At a poetry reading? What the hell was going on? He held the infant close, protecting her from the distressing sight of her mother being sick. She reacted by reaching up her chubby fists to his cheek, instantly smiling through her fretful tears. ‘Tick-tock man,’ she said.
And now his damned brother was climbing out of the carriage, his face livid with rage and, yes, fear as he growled out, ‘Alec. What the hell do you think you’re doing here?’
‘I’ve come to see what you’re up to, Stephen.’ Alec’s voice was harsh. ‘It’s not your usual style to be conveying a sick woman and her infant in your carriage.’
