by Liz Carlyle
“But I’ve looked closely at each of those men,” Rance protested, setting his tea down with a clatter. “Most have died, aye, or vanished. But I’m not a fool, Mr. Kemble.”
Kemble just shrugged. “Looked at each of them, eh? But have you looked at all of them?”
Eyes widening, Anisha seized her satchel and dug out her sheaf of papers. On top were the folded gaming vowels. “I stole those,” she said, “from Royden Napier.”
“Oh, bravo!” Kemble brightened hopefully. “What have we here?”
“Perhaps Sir Wilfred Leeton didn’t want to pay his debt to Rance?” she suggested as Kemble’s eyes swept over the notes. “Perhaps he killed Peveril?”
“Over this sum?” Kemble murmured. “I doubt it. Old Will could have raised twice that by selling out his stables.”
Anisha had not thought the sum so paltry. “Lady Madeleine MacLachlan is taking me to the Leetons’ garden party on Monday,” she murmured. “Do you think he would know anything?”
“You might do better to ask the wife,” Kemble said, his finger stroking lightly round the penciled circle. “She’s a frightful gossip.”
“I saw that notation, too,” she said a little breathlessly. “What would you guess it means?”
Kemble tucked the papers back and pushed the file away. “Oh, I need not guess, child!” he said. “That is a reference to the Black Horse syndicate. Hanging Nick was wondering, you see, if Leeton was a member. And assuming he made the proper inquiries, he would have learnt that, no, he was not. He was far too junior, and while his house was pernicious as an adder’s den, it was as much about Leeton rubbing elbows with the nobs as making money. And in the world of serious gaming, that sentiment held no sway.”
“The Black Horse syndicate?” Rance straightened in his chair. “What the devil is that?”
Kemble made an airy gesture with his hand. “Oh, think of it as a sort of London guild,” he said. “Rather like the Worshipful Company of Fishmongers, but for gaming establishments—only the old pros, mind. It was quite something to aspire to. They dined twice a month in a private room over the Black Horse in Cripplegate. It was a shady crew, but I knew a few of them.”
“What did they do, exactly?” Anisha asked.
Kemble shrugged. “Oh, guarded one another’s backs, hired out bullyboys, kept a running list of counters and sharpers that wanted watching—and on rare occasion, they covered one another’s losses from a mutual aid fund.”
“Good God, like . . . fire insurance?” said Rance. “I never heard of it.”
“Oddly enough, they did not advertise,” said Kemble snidely. “Certainly not to you. More likely yours was the first name on their list.”
“But I—” Anisha bit back her words.
Both men turned to look at her. “Yes?” Kemble murmured. “What is it, my dear?”
Anisha shot Rance a sidelong look. “It’s just that I showed those to Edward Quartermaine,” she said quietly. “He runs one of the most profitable hells in London. But he said he thought the words had no significance.”
“Quartermaine—?” Rance turned to glower at her again.
Kemble merely chortled with laughter. “Oh, I’ll just bet he did! Young Ned was ever a sly one. But he’s right, in a manner of speaking. A den of thieves soon turns on itself, and the Black Horse gang died out, some fleeing to the Continent as rascals will do, and others going on to that great faro board in the sky. Well, all save for the chap who thought it up to begin with.”
“And who was that?” said Rance.
“Oh, that would be one Mr. Alfred Hedge, who is presently hacking up his lungs in the salubrious sea air of Brighton after a lifetime of London dissipation,” said Mr. Kemble. “You might call him the original Prime Warden of that merry guild. But Ned Quartermaine? I think he just calls him Papa.”
Chapter 12
They are greater storms and tempests
than almanacs can report.
William Shakespeare, Antony and Cleopatra
Half an hour later, both the sky and the mood had only grown blacker. “Good God,” said Rance grimly as they bore down upon Mr. Kemble’s gateposts. “Remember what you once said about being nailed shut in a barrel?”
“Feeling it, old thing?” Through her black veil, Anisha cut a curious glance at him. “I believe Quartermaine has led us a merry dance.”
Rance shook his head. “I know the fellow’s short on Christian charity, but I wouldn’t have believed him a liar,” he said, cutting his horses onto the main road. Then his jaw hardened, and he shot her a censorious glance. “Nor would I have believed you fool enough to go back there alone.”
Anisha bit back her temper as the horses dug in hard to pull them over a set of deep ruts in the turn—just the sort of soft, bare earth, she knew, that could turn to mud in an instant, caking one’s wheels. She took a fierce grip on the side of the calash as they clattered over the rough, Rance having put the cover up before setting off again. But it would not be enough to shield them if the storm broke.
Rance was still waiting for her to say something. “I did not go alone,” she finally answered. “There, are you satisfied?”
He shut his eyes an instant as the cow byre flew past. “Please, Nish. Not with Napier.”
“Do you really think me such a fool?” she snapped. “I had Mr. Ringgold send Quartermaine across the street to the bookroom, though he was none too pleased about it. I offered him tea, showed him the notes, then simply sat there whilst he lied to my face, then lectured me like a child—a tendency the two of you share, I might mention.”
Rance snapped his whip high, and the horses sped up. “I’m sorry, Nish,” he said after a quarter mile had passed. “I’m sorry I fret. I’m sorry I dragged you out here. You mean only to help, I know, and I’m not sure I deserve it. And now, blast it all, we’re in for a drenching.”
There was indeed little hope now the storm would go around them. “Perhaps we should have stayed with Mr. Kemble and Monsieur Giroux?” she said. “They did offer.”
“Perhaps,” he admitted. “But it seemed . . . unwise. He helped us, aye. But I know his sort. He may provide information to the Home Office—or to us—as it suits him, but his loyalty lies with himself.”
Anisha set one hand on her hat against a sudden, whipping wind. “Did you sense anything of him?” she asked quietly.
Rance gave a tight nod. “That chap reads like an open book,” he answered. “Beneath all that persnickity charm, he’s utterly ruthless. He seems almost . . . fey at times. But he’s not. He’s dangerous—and amoral as an alley cat.”
“But was he dishonest?”
“No.” Rance turned his gaze from the road, acknowledgement in his eyes. “Not today, at any rate, and that’s a fair point, Nish. Everything he said was the truth as he knew it. I’m sure of that. Still, he didn’t tell us everything he could have.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want him as an enemy,” said Anisha, just as lightning flashed in the distance. The low sound of thunder followed soon after, rolling around them like some monstrous barrel in the sky. But the horses carried on at a brisk clip, the hedgerows flying past. They fell into an uncomfortable silence, Anisha mulling over everything Mr. Kemble had told them.
Interestingly, the man had never once questioned Rance’s innocence. Instead, without prompting, he’d proposed Anisha’s theory—that there had been a conspiracy against Rance. Still, it seemed odd under such circumstances to frame a man for murder. Anisha wished for an instant to return to the manor house and ask Kemble why such a thing made sense.
London had hundreds of dark alleys and a deep, deadly river running through the middle of it. If a gang of hooligans wanted rid of someone, why not simply crack him across the sconce and pitch him off Waterloo Bridge? Why take that extra step of killing someone else, then fixing the blame?
She was inexplicably frustrated with Edward Quartermaine, too, though why it should be so, Anisha could not have said. The man had never represented hims
elf as anything but a scoundrel. And eventually Rance would have his revenge. Next time they met, he might just plant the fellow a facer, for Rance hadn’t the patience to simply call a man out as a gentleman should.
But that mightn’t be soon. At his first opportunity, Rance would be off to Brighton, and he wouldn’t return until he’d wrung every drop of information to be had from Quartermaine’s father.
Just now, however, he was fretting more about her than either Quartermaine or his sire. Her peevishness giving way to affection, she eased her hand beneath his elbow and curled it round his sleeve.
After an instant’s hesitation, he tucked his arm closer, pressing her hand to his ribs. “Blast,” he said. “Do you see that black sky to the south? That’s London under a torrent—with more black coming behind it.”
“Go back to that inn,” she said in a firm voice. “The one with all those apple trees where we asked directions.”
“Nish—” he began.
“Rance, I’m not riding twenty miles in a downpour to salvage what you imagine is my reputation,” she said just as the rain began to drum down on the calash. “You may do as you please. But you will set me down in the inn yard. Now, how far is it?”
“Three miles,” he grumbled. “I hope you won’t miss me.”
But even Anisha could see that she had won.
And she knew, even if he did not, that Rance would never abandon her.
By the time they reached the old coaching inn, the rain was hammering hard. His breeches soaked through at the knees, Rance maneuvered his horses through the carriage gate, drawing up beneath the inn’s upper story. The din upon the calash ceased, but the splatter beyond was still deafening, the rain so heavy he could barely make out the yard’s fringe of gnarled fruit trees that had earlier been apparent.
A young ostler sprang from the lee of the stables, massive boots splashing through the puddles as he came—though puddle did not quite define it; the yard was now a shallow pond that was washing beneath the gate.
Rain streaming off his hat, Rance leapt down and tossed the lad two shillings as they passed. “Grab your satchel, Nish,” he shouted over the din, “and throw your arms round my neck.”
Anisha gave a little shriek when he scooped her up beneath the knees and hefted her out of the curricle, but her shoes and hems, he knew, were no match for the water. Holding her slight form to his chest and damning himself for dragging her out in such a mess, Rance slogged his way round to the side door beneath the carriage gate.
After shouldering his way through, he found himself in an empty tavern room that smelled of damp dogs and soured ale, where a fire crackled in the hearth in some vain attempt to ward off mold. He looked about the place and decided it would have to do.
“Go sit by the fire,” he murmured, setting her gently onto her feet, “and keep your veil down.”
Along a short passageway, a pair of bow windows gave onto what passed for the village high street. A balding, bespectacled man looked up from his counter and closed his baize ledger.
“Have you a pair of rooms?” Rance asked, shaking the damp from his hat. “I’m just on my way back to London, but my wife has taken ill. And now the roads—”
“Oh, frightful,” he said, cutting a curious glance at Anisha and her veil.
“A migraine,” said Rance, setting a finger to his lips. “A dark, quiet room might be best.”
The man’s face pinched with sympathy. “My late mother was the very same, bless her,” he murmured. “Best put you in the back.”
Moments later, Rance ushered Anisha into a small sitting room which, the innkeeper proudly informed him, connected the two bedchambers. His best intentions already thwarted, Rance sighed, then ordered hot water, two buckets of coal, and an early dinner. Nodding, the innkeeper went out again.
“Oh, thank God!” Anisha was already pulling the pins from her hat. She set it aside, then drew her black traveling cloak snug again. She was freezing, Rance knew, and it took all his restraint not to go to her and fold her in his arms.
Instead, he went to the window and feigned an interest in the stables below. “Have you something dry in that satchel?” he asked hopefully.
“Enough, I expect. Janet is remarkably efficient.”
He set a hand high on the deep window frame and stared into the murk. “Put it on, then, after the hot water comes,” he said, watching raindrops race down the glass, “and hang your wet things up in here. I’ll have a good fire for you shortly.”
Half an hour later, the hearth was glowing and a cold supper was laid out on a small gate-legged table he and the innkeeper dragged near the hearth, situating it between an old oak settle gone black with age and the only chair.
A few minutes after the door closed, Anisha peeped out. “All bathed and dry,” she declared. “Ooh, what’s that smell?”
Rance had returned to the window, as if keeping his distance might help. “Roast capon stuffed with onions, I’m told,” he said, smiling. “Still a bit warm from lunch.”
At that, she came all the way into the room. To his disquiet, however, she wore the green silk peignoir he was so achingly familiar with, and under it a similarly embroidered nightdress. To make matters worse, her heavy black hair was down, shimmering like satin as she moved.
She paused by the fire and stretched. “Umm, you always build the best fires,” she said, closing her eyes for an instant.
One hip hitched high on the deep box of the windowsill, Rance went utterly still inside.
So often with her it was like this. So often came those quiet, unexpected moments when he would find himself simply awestruck by the turn of her face, or the way she lifted her arms. Moments against which he had to steel himself, or be swamped by the yearning. And just now—when she looked so small and beautiful, her face aglow with reflected firelight, the green silk and black hair shimmering with a warmth that came from inside as well as out—he knew, with crystal clarity, what the outcome of all this would be.
He could sit in the window till hell froze over, but in the end he would make love to Anisha.
There was no point deceiving himself or telling himself his intentions were good. They weren’t. Whether it stemmed from some newfound sense of hope, or whether the old hopelessness had simply driven him mad, Rance knew what he was going to do, and it wouldn’t have much mattered had the innkeeper locked her in the attics and him in the cellars. Spending the night under the same roof was far too much temptation—especially for a man who’d never been good at denying his own appetites.
And good God, did he hunger for her.
When she at last left the hearth and closed the distance between them, Rance caught her round the waist and watched her eyes flare with surprise as he drew her between his legs.
“There’s no use pretending I’m going to do the right thing here, is there?” he murmured, cupping her face in his hand. “And you won’t say no, will you, Nish? You won’t slap my face as I deserve.”
She leaned into him, her hair sliding over her shoulder in a silky curtain. “But what is the right thing?” she whispered. “You tell me.”
She stood motionless between his thighs, forcing him to make the first move.
He made it. Catching the curtain of her hair, he roped it twice round his hand, slowly pulling her face to his. When their lips met, he kissed her lingeringly at first, molding his mouth over hers, then gently tasting her, plumbing her spicy-sweet depths with his tongue until she surrendered, pressing herself closer, urging the softness of her belly between the vee of his thighs.
On a soft moan, he let his hand slide down to lightly palm the swell of her derriere, then deepened the kiss. He felt her need ratchet up and lifted her fully against his hardening erection. Anisha answered by setting one knee to the windowsill beside his hip, hitching up the green silk and climbing astraddle him. Relaxing against the cool of the glass, he let her follow him back into the well of the window, kissing her until she was breathless.
Her silks b
unched across her thighs, she pressed her feminine heat to him in open invitation. The scent of soap and warmth and woman flooded his senses. Temptation got the better of him. With motions as awkward as they were desperate, he worked his hand between them and began to unhitch his trouser buttons. She pushed the wool away with impatient shoves until his shaft was straining at the lawn of his drawers, pressing against the soft curls between her legs.
On a soft sound of need, Anisha caught the thin fabric with her thumb and urged it awkwardly down. It was this, perhaps, that finally sliced through the haze of lust. He caught her hand and pulled it gently away. “Wait,” he whispered.
“No,” she murmured against his lips.
But situated in the window as they were, the deepening dusk would soon provide a rather shocking silhouette to anyone below. He kissed his way back from the edge of madness, brushing his lips over her eyes, along the turn of her cheek, and finally down her throat.
With a sound of frustration, Anisha scooted off, landing on her feet.
He looked down at her through teasing eyes. “And that, old thing, is a taste of your own medicine,” he said.
“Mine—?” She looked at him incredulously.
His smile was rueful. “Aye, you can torment me by simply strolling into a room.”
In the graying light, her cheeks flushed. “You hide it rather well.”
“As a gentleman should.” His trousers still bagging loose, Rance turned to draw out the shutters.
“A gentleman might finish what he started,” she said tartly.
He flattened the shutters against the glass and latched them shut, deepening the gloom. “Aye, well, just sit down and eat something,” he said, turning back to her. “There will be time enough later to ruin your life.”
She sighed, then surprised him by kneeling down. “Then give me your boot,” she said. “They are sodden.”
“I can get them off myself,” he said, “I think.”
“Give me the dashed boot,” she said, snapping her fingers. “There, are you pleased? You’ve reduced me to bad language. Still, I don’t fancy being bedded by a lout in wet boots.”
