by Deb Marlowe
Chapter Three
For miles I walked, alone in the dark. But not truly alone, after all. I had a child to protect, and a thousand visions of our future to keep me company.
—from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright
Tru's fingers danced against his thigh, the only sign of his impatience as he followed Stoneacre and the Grant girl through the damp streets of Dover.
Yet he burned with it. The restless ache that swirled in his gut picked up speed, fueling eagerness and anxiety. At last. After all these weeks—a hint, a promise of action. He didn't want to be tamely trailing the sway of Callie Grant's skirts through an ever-increasing downpour. He hungered to go now, to hire a carriage or hop aboard a ship and head straight to wherever it was Marstoke was hiding.
But his habitual impulsiveness had gotten him into this mess. He would not fall prey to it again. He hoped to God he'd learned at least that much as his life fell to shambles. So he strained, pulled back on the reins of his impatience and allowed his fingers to tap out his angst, when all he really wished to do was to reach out, wrap them about Marstoke’s neck and get a firm grip on justice and truth.
Stoneacre led them into a nondescript building not far from the Marine Parade. Fair to bursting with questions, Tru surged forward, only to be held up as a portly man stepped into the entry hall to meet them. He held out a leather packet. Stoneacre examined the papers inside, then pulled him aside. Whispers slid toward Tru in the damp hall, taunting, as Stoneacre asked questions, low and rapid fire. Tru watched, longing to insert himself and find out just what was going on. He sidled closer to Callie Grant instead.
The girl had been a thorn in his side since he first met her, a few weeks ago, just after his brother had struck him free of Marstoke’s clutches. She had no love for the damned marquess either, but she’d spent every waking moment since telling anyone who would listen that they should let him lie wherever he’d landed, allow him to wreak havoc elsewhere and leave them in peace.
He could scarcely believe that she was the reason Stoneacre had delayed their immediate departure. Ironic, that.
Yet still, if anything—or anyone—stood a chance of distracting him from this restless impatience, it was she—a walking, talking bundle of startling contrasts. They'd had more than one rancorous confrontation already, so his mind could easily dredge up the memory of her clear, green eyes, offer up an image of them beckoning a man from a sweet, heart-shaped face.
Street gossip named her Hestia Wright’s right hand—and she looked the part of companion to the world’s most famous ex-courtesan. Callie Grant was a bedroom fantasy come to life, with delicate skin, so pure and light you felt sure you could see through it. The perfect foil for that wealth of unruly hair, darker now with the wet and missing its usual auburn tint. But it was her body that held a man captive, helpless to look away. She was small in stature, yet boasted more curves than the Thames. Her bosom was a thing of wonder even without sodden curls straggling down, pointing the way, and damp clothes clinging tight. In Tru’s eye she stood testament, a magnificent temple to womanly bounty.
He knew better than to touch, however. Nearly every bit of the girl crooned a siren's invitation, but her tongue sang another, sharper song altogether. Men in general she held in disdain, but for him she'd nurtured a special contempt. He wasn't surprised, therefore, when she stepped sharply away, keeping her back to him.
"You're standing too close, Lord Truitt." She cast a cross glance over her shoulder. Wrapping her arms tight about herself, she shook her head. "I wish I knew how you do that—and if it is meant to be purposeful or comes entirely naturally."
"How I do what?" True asked absently. Easy to ignore Stoneacre and his friend when he was fully occupied not staring at the wet folds of her gown and how they clung tight to the small of her back before smoothing over her hips.
"Irritate me at every turn. It appears effortless on your part, but at times I do wonder if you work at it." She spun about to confront him and he had to avert his eyes. That damp muslin painted a different, far more erotic picture from the front. "Take tonight, for instance, in that alley. Your interference was unnecessary and unwelcome."
Tru frowned. "Timely and essential, I believe are the words you meant to say. That miscreant was about to make a grab for the weapon in your pocket."
She tossed her head. "At which time I would have sunk the knife in my other pocket right into a particular spot in his shoulder—rendering his entire arm useless."
That brought him up short. "Bloodthirsty, are we?"
"And experienced,” she agreed. “He had made his intent clear. Should I have played the helpless lady and let him put his filthy hands on me?" She snorted. "No. I've long experience dealing with men of his sort."
He could not have picked a better distraction. Even avoiding the wicked temptation of her wet gown, there was the glint in her eye and the twist of her pretty mouth. “Do you have us all sorted, then, Miss Grant? Alphabetized, perhaps?”
Her gaze lifted to his. “I thought I had.”
“Would you care to share your categorizations?”
She held up a hand and ticked off a finger. “Those like Cobb, who like to hurt or dominate women.” Another finger ticked down. “Those who merely use them, as if they were a scrap of linen to be thrown away.” Another finger. “Then there are those who largely ignore women—after all, we don't often possess power or fortune. Those types do find an occasional use for us, but it rarely lasts long.”
The sudden, bleak expression on her face surprised Tru. Their gazes held.
She paused, and the air between them thickened, suddenly ripe with tension and . . . possibility.
She dropped her hand. "There are others," she said quietly. “But you, Lord Truitt? I don't think I know you well enough to know just where you fit.”
He opened his mouth to reply, but Stoneacre finally beckoned. “We can talk in here,” he called. He gestured to the room his companion opened up.
A parlor, comfortable, but not fine. Nondescript might be the word for it. All done in shades of brown and beige with no family portraits on the wall or personal touches anywhere.
“This is Richards,” Stoneacre said. “He’ll be our host tonight. If you need something, he’ll provide it. Don’t hesitate to ask.”
The other man bowed. “Please, take advantage of the fire. There is brandy on the sideboard. Tea and sandwiches will arrive shortly.”
Stoneacre reached out and touched Callie Grant’s arm as she started forward. “Perhaps you’d best go upstairs and change, first?” He waved a hand toward the staircase at the other side of the entryway. “You were out in the wet longer than either of us, and we don’t need you taking a chill. We’ll wait for you to return before we begin.”
“Thank you, sir.” She lifted her chin. “But I prefer my own things. I only traveled with one bag, and I left it behind at the Spotted Duck.”
“I have it here,” said a soft voice from above. Tru and Miss Grant both turned to look up. “And I’ve brought you some things from home as well.”
“Hestia!” The girl’s face lit up at the sight of the woman at the top of the staircase. “What are you doing here?”
“Following you.”
Hestia Wright, former courtesan, famous philanthropist and easily the most beautiful woman of Tru’s acquaintance, started down the stairs.
“Did you think I wouldn’t hear of your sudden departure—or the why of it?” She laughed. “The gossip vine at Half Moon House is far too efficient for that. I started out after you at once—and encountered Lord Stoneacre. He, it turns out, was following Lord Truitt to the same spot, and for a similar reason.” She paused on the last step and flashed a brilliant smile around the hall. “And now here we all are.”
“Yes, with urgent business to discuss,” Stoneacre interjected. “So, if you would, Miss Grant?” He gestured toward the second floor.
“I promise I won’t allow a single relevant syllable to pass
anyone’s lips,” Hestia said with a smile. “Now go and dry off, dear. Your bags are in the first door to the right.”
As Callie Grant acquiesced, the other woman turned and bent the full force of her smile on Tru.
And a formidable weapon it was too. Hestia Wright had been named the Queen of Courtesans in England and on the Continent. She’d been consort to kings, princes and policy makers across Europe. Her wealth was rumored to be immense, her influence was known to be weighty—and all of that paled in comparison to her pale, ethereal beauty.
“Lord Truitt, will you walk me in?”
He gathered himself and held up an obliging arm.
“We shall be good friends, I believe.” The touch of her hand felt as light as a feather.
“’Shall we?” he asked, surprised.
“Of course.” She blinked. “If the old adage holds true. . .”
Tru stiffened a little. He’d already discarded and disparaged one old wives’ tale tonight. “Which adage is that?” he asked, unable to keep a slight edge from his tone.
“Why, the one about the enemy of my enemy, to be sure. Should that one prove itself, then we shall be very good friends indeed.”
He smiled, then. He’d heard the rumors about this woman, about her hatred of the Marquess of Marstoke and his for her. His brother had let slip a hint of a battle between them, one that had waged unabated for years. If that were the case, then he would be happy to ally with her—and finish what she’d started. “I shall look forward to it.”
“Good. You may call me Hestia, as we are to be friends. And have I heard correctly that you are called Tru?” She smiled at his nod. “A very good name, indeed.” She met his gaze with a candid one of her own. “I expect you shall live up to it, sir.” She breezed over to a table, then turned. “Oh, Stoneacre, be a dear and hold that door open again, will you? I hear the tea tray coming.”
Tru stood back while servants hustled to set up a table and chairs. Hestia took charge and poured them all a cup, adding a healthy dollop of brandy to each. He took it with a nod of thanks, drank deep and let the spreading warmth ease the knot of anxiety in his gut.
“Ah.” Hestia poured one more. “Not an ounce of dawdle in that girl,” she said with approval as Callie Grant entered with a quick, light step.
She was tidy again, Tru noted, and clad for warmth in a plain, long-sleeved gown. But no amount of drab clothing could disguise the sweep of those curves or the fresh glow of pearly skin. Nor did it do an effective job of hiding the steel underneath. Tru knew it was there. He braced himself, certain it would manifest soon enough.
His fingers began to tap again, beneath the table. “Hang this delay.” He looked pointedly at Stoneacre. “Where’s Marstoke?”
Callie Grant accepted the cup from her friend. “Damn Marstoke. More importantly, where’s Letty?”
They exchanged a glare.
“Don’t start bickering, you two.” Stoneacre held up a hand. “As of tonight, they are the same question, with the same answer.” He met Tru’s eye. “Brittany. We found him at a small estate just off the coast.”
Both women stilled. They exchanged a significant glance, but Tru merely filed their reaction away, where he could examine it later. His mind jumped immediately ahead. Brittany. A packet, that meant, to get them across the channel. Tomorrow morning at the latest. He had his passport, his papers. He had money enough. He shifted position, anxious to start making plans—until Stoneacre transferred his gaze to the girl. “And Letty has already joined him there.”
This time her response brought Tru tumbling right back. In his experience, Callie Grant was all flash and spitfire. But this news did something to her. Her shoulders drooped, her lips trembled. The look of vibrant challenge drained from her face. It was loss moving in a wave across her expression. Defeat.
He found he didn’t like it.
Stoneacre reached for her hand. “Don’t despair just yet,” he counseled.
She looked up.
“We mean to go after her. But there are extenuating circumstances. Are you familiar with a girl named Mary Cooper?” he asked her.
“No.” Tru saw her pause to mentally review before she looked to Hestia. “We haven’t had anyone by that name at Half Moon House.”
Hestia shook her head.
“What does she have to do with Marstoke?” Tru asked.
“It’s what she might do for Marstoke that worries us,” Stoneacre sighed.
“Start at the beginning,” Hestia interrupted. “They both need to understand it all.”
Callie Grant’s teacup rattled in its saucer as she set it down. Hestia looked to her with compassion. “I’m sorry darling, but you’ll see that I’m right.” She cut a gaze to Stoneacre. “Show him the picture.”
Nodding, the earl, searched through the stack of files and pulling out a thick sheet of parchment, offered it to Tru. He took it. It was a sketch. A good one, of a young girl in fancy dress and shining jewels.
“Do you recognize her?”
“Should I? She’s familiar . . .” He stopped to study the strong nose, the elegant nape and tight rosebud mouth. Suddenly the pieces clicked together. “Oh, yes. Stupid of me. It’s the Princess, is it not? I should have known. Princess Charlotte.” He handed the sketch back.
Callie Grant groaned aloud and hid her face in her hands.
“No.” Stoneacre had gone solemn. “That’s Letty Robbins.”
“It is?” He stretched out a hand and looked at the sketch again, and nodded when Stoneacre also handed over a rumpled newspaper. “It’s true I‘ve never met the Robbins girl, nor yet have I met the Princess in person, but you can see—this looks remarkably like the pictures you see of her in the papers and caricatures.” He glanced between the two. “How did that happen?”
“The usual way,” Stoneacre replied sardonically. “This group of royals—you could fill a regiment with the children they’ve bred on the wrong side of the blanket.”
“She’s a royal ba—” Stoneacre winced and Tru stopped himself. “A natural child? Of which royal?”
Stoneacre glanced at the ladies’ side of the table. “Her mother was an opera dancer, it would seem.” He looked to Miss Grant as if for confirmation, but she kept her face blank, her eyes focused ahead and not on any one in the room. Still, the unspoken question was telling, all the same. Stoneacre sighed before he continued. “Her father is believed to be Prince Ernest.”
Wicked Ernest. Tru had exchanged only a word or two with him, during court functions. He was the one spoken of in hushed voices. The prince, it was whispered, who got a child on his sister, the Princess Sophia. The prince who reportedly murdered his valet and got away with it. The one whose name was used by nannies and weary parents across the kingdom to frighten children into submission.
“Her dedication to Marstoke is perhaps easier to understand, then,” Tru mused. “Perhaps he does not look so bad next to such a father.”
Stoneacre cleared his throat. “Yes, well, Marstoke’s manipulation of Letty Robbins is grievous by itself, but coupled with his relationship with the princess? It becomes a disaster.”
Tru frowned. “Marstoke has a relationship with the princess?”
“He does according to the letters and papers we found in his secret office—the one discovered by your brother’s new bride.”
Tru brushed off the twinge brought on by mention of Marstoke’s failed conspiracy. Thoughts of his own part in it could not help but follow—and that was precisely the reaction that he meant to erase. Permanently. From his own mind and everyone else’s too. “But I thought the general complaint circulates that Charlotte is kept restricted, closely monitored and unseen.”
Stoneacre leaned in. “That’s just it. Marstoke must have spent years speaking briefly to her at the few court functions she’s permitted to attend, arranging accidental meetings during her short jaunts out. He must have worked slowly and for some time to gain her trust. He also found someone in her household to smuggle their c
orrespondence. There are stacks of letters that make it clear that he was her confidante.”
“So he’s formed a friendship with the Princess Charlotte—and now you believe he means to make use of the other girl’s likeness to her?”
“Of course he means to make use of it.” Her face tight, Callie Grant leaned forward. “That costume, that part, was her first speaking role.” She tapped the sketch of Letty Robbins. “All she ever wanted was to act. She put in her time, performing in the background, but she dreamed of acceptance and the adoration of the audience. She did well, too, in that part. She had her mother’s talents, she always told me.”
She bit her lip. “Marstoke must have caught the resemblance right away. Letty only played that role a few nights before his lackeys picked her up right out of the theater and deposited her with that pimp in the back stews of the city. Clearly they didn’t want anyone else to notice what he had seen right off. They didn’t put Letty out on the street or in a brothel like the rest of Hatch’s girls. They kept her separate. Alone. Filled her head with dreams and big plans. Hatch wanted something better for her, she used to say. Sometimes her eyes would shine as she talked of it. Nebulous, vague ideas, but grand.” Her breath caught. “And sometimes she spoke of it all past a black eye and through a split lip.” She ducked her head, rubbed a temple with two fingers. “And now we know just what those plans were.”
“I’m sorry for your . . . friend.” Tru suspected that he was the only one here who didn’t understand Callie Grant’s connection to the Robbins girl. Given the color in her cheeks, he hesitated to ask. “But I know the Regent fairly well. Surely he’s warned the princess away from Marstoke now.”
“Yes, and it didn’t sit well, especially in light of the other problems between her and her father. Did any of you read of the incident last week?” Stoneacre asked. “In a fit of temper, the Regent dismissed his daughter’s entire household. She ran to her mother and almost created another great scandal.”
“They argue over the girl’s broken betrothal to the Prince of Orange,” Hestia chimed in. “The Regent really must give up this notion. His daughter is not the only one who believes it to be a bad idea.”
