Or was it because now that she was ruined, she no longer had anything to lose?
Whatever the reason, she couldn’t bring herself to second-guess her behavior. She was finally doing something, not sitting back letting life slide by, living vicariously through the pages of a book. She was going to turn her own page, for once.
“Well?” she said, growing impatient with his silence.
“If you must know, I was planning to stand here and listen for the voices we heard the other night.”
“That isn’t a plan.” Mary felt a bit annoyed that he’d put so little thought into it, when he’d all but promised her he would take care of the problem. She herself had lain awake for hours, turning over matters in her mind, scribbling thoughts down on paper. “Especially given the fact that we only heard the men speak in whispers that night. Relying on your memory to identify them is relying on little more than chance.”
“And yet, sometimes chance has a way of working out. Take our first meeting, for example.” His voice deepened. “If I hadn’t chanced to piss on Ashington’s rosebushes that morning, we wouldn’t be here now.”
In spite of her twitching irritation, Mary smothered the laugh that tried to bolt out of her at that. “I suspect, sir, your propensity for drink and boorish behavior means there was more than a mere chance that poor, pathetic rosebush would be your target that unfortunate morning.” Her gaze really shouldn’t be lingering on the smooth swoop of nose, the way his forehead wrinkled when he laughed. She needed to remember she was here for a serious reason.
But somehow, the shape of his lips quite scattered her wits. She felt out of her depth, but not on account of her usual shyness. No, she felt out of her depth here today because she was coming to feel at ease in his presence. She didn’t know quite what to make of it.
“But very well then,” she finally conceded, cocking an ear toward the rustling pews. “Let’s pretend for a moment that yours is a good idea.” She stood, listening. “There are an awful lot of voices to sort through.” She gestured toward the half-filled pews. “Wouldn’t it be better to sit down to listen?”
“I doubt an exchange of money this important will occur out in the open like that. More likely it will occur somewhere back here. That is why I chose this particular location, Miss Channing.”
“Oh.” That really made quite a lot of sense. In fact, she should have thought of it herself. She reached into her reticule and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “While we listen, have a look at this.”
He took up the paper. “What is this, Miss Channing?” he teased, his grin returning. “Have you written me a love letter?”
“Hardly.” She snorted. Honestly, did his ego know no bounds? “In case our pursuit of this duke comes to naught, I have compiled a list of potential villains I think we should investigate.”
“Another list?” The smile slid from his lips. “You have been busy these past few days.”
She shrugged. “A woman without prospects tends to have free time on her hands.”
He had the good grace to look chagrined. “I did offer you marriage.”
“And I refused, with good reason. Marrying you would be a nightmare.”
There was a moment’s pause. “Take it from someone who suffers nightmares, Miss Channing. You misuse the word. Either that or you sorely misunderstand the pleasures to be found in my bed.”
Her cheeks heated. Good gracious, the man appeared to just say whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Had he never had a moment’s discretion? “The list, Mr. Westmore.” She gestured to it, annoyed with herself for reacting to his bold taunts. “I did not compile it merely for my health.”
He looked down at the paper and unfolded it. “Number One: The Orsinians.” His eyes narrowed. “That is actually an excellent suspicion.”
“I thought it was important to consider the possibility, after that recent assassination business in Paris this past January.”
He cocked his head. “You know something of international politics?”
“I read the newspapers, of course. And we sometimes discuss politics over the dinner table, at my brother’s home.” Though oddly, she had been thinking about that home in Yorkshire less and less, thanks to the distraction she’d been tossed into here in London. “The Orsinians involved in the Paris plot this year were British citizens, so it could fit. And by my understanding, the business with Italian unification and the extremists is nowhere close to finished.”
Westmore nodded. “It is a good thought. We—” He stopped himself. Started again. “That is, I—could make some subtle inquiries. See if anyone has heard rumblings of further discord on that front.” He looked down at the list again. “Number Two: The Fenians.” His mouth quirked upward on one side. “Honestly, Miss Channing, the Irish?”
“They have a reputation for ruthlessness,” Mary argued, knowing this one was a bit far-fetched. “And they are gaining ground in their demands for independence.”
“Nonetheless, the Irish nationalists are poorly organized at present, and none of the people we overheard had any hint of an Irish brogue. More likely for it to be a British aristocrat who wants to pin it on the Fenians.”
“Exactly.” She nodded, glad to hear him thinking. “Which brings us to Number Three.”
He looked down again. She could hear the paper crinkling beneath the grip of his fingers. “The prime minister?” he asked, followed by a slightly dismissive laugh. “Come, now, Miss Channing. I thought he was on your list of possible targets.”
“I mean the former prime minister. Lord Palmerston.”
He made a strangled sound. For a moment, she was tempted to whump him on the back. Dislodge whatever was making his face turn pale like that. But no . . . whumping would involve touching him, and touching him seemed too . . . tempting.
Best to keep her whumps to herself.
“That is a very serious charge, Miss Channing,” he finally choked out. “One that could get us both in a good deal of trouble.”
“Lord Palmerston’s resignation was forced in the wake of the Orsini affair, so it seems he has every reason to hate those in power.” She plowed on, having been over this a dozen times in her head. “And inventing an enemy in the Irish could help him regain favor. And then, of course, there’s Number Four.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. Looked down warily. “The Russians?” he asked. “Truly? Haven’t we reached a proper accord with them by now?”
“I know this one may seem less likely, given that the war has been over for some time. But it stands to reason there are some people who might still harbor ill will over the embarrassment of Crimea.”
“An embarrassment, is it?” Blue eyes lifted to meet her own. “Is that what you think of that business in Crimea, Miss Channing?”
She hesitated. She’d read of the terrible accounts from the field, the detailed coverage in the papers, the unconscionable deaths of good men due to illness and injuries, simply due to a lack of medical supplies and trained doctors. “I think the men who fought were very brave,” she said slowly, “but I think the men who sent our young men to that war did not always give the consequences due consideration.”
Westmore stood, still as stone, the rigid slant of his shoulders telling her very little about his mindset other than the fact that he, too, had an opinion about such things. And then he folded up the paper and shoved it in his trouser pocket. She stared at the small motion, irritation twitching through her. Did he not agree with her reasoning? She’d put a good deal of thought into that list. They were good ideas.
She felt it in her bones.
And then she felt something else in her bones, a prickle of awareness.
Up front, the service had started, the organ music going silent, which only made the noises around her seem more acute. She caught an urgent whisper, a rustle of silk.
“Westmore—” she began.
“I hear them,” he said tersely.
She clutched at his arm, and was relieved to feel
his hand cover her own. A light squeeze, warning her to stay silent, but she didn’t need the reminder.
Together, they stepped around the column, eyes and ears straining toward the farthest edge of the vestibule. Mary could see a woman dressed in yellow silk, her hair tucked under a straw bonnet. She was speaking to a man who was too deep in the shadows to discern. The thought that it could be their duke made her pulse bound in her ears.
They inched closer, until gradually, the whispers became more distinct. “Why did he not come himself?” the woman asked, sounding almost angry. Mary gasped to recognize that the voice sounded the same as one of the women’s from the library.
“ ’E sent me instead.” It was one of the men’s voices from the library, the one with the harsher accent. Mary leaned forward, trying to hear.
“That wasn’t part of the plan.”
“Plans change, and you’re to change with them. ’E says for you to deliver the money promptly, and then wait for his word.”
“Oh he does, does he?” The woman sounded irritated. “Well, we must do as he says, mustn’t we? Deliver the money, kill the queen?”
A chill rippled down Mary’s spine. Oh, God. It wasn’t the prime minister, it was the queen. For the first time in her life, her wild imaginings had come true.
But being right had never felt so horribly wrong.
If the traitors succeeded in killing Queen Victoria, there would be political hell to pay. Alliances would be shattered. Fragile holds on peace dissolved. Worse, there were children involved—princes and princesses—who would be left without a mother. And Mary rather liked the queen, who proved, by her very rule, that women should not be discounted in this world of suffering male politics.
A basket was passed, the sort that might rest on the arm of any woman on market day. The woman in yellow turned. Moved. Head down, she hurried past them toward the open doors of the cathedral, the basket full of money looped over her arm.
“Stay here,” Westmore snarled. From his pocket, he pulled out a pistol.
Mary gasped, her heart thudding against her chest. The sight of that pistol was every bit as terrifying as the transaction they had just witnessed. “Westmore! You can’t shoot a woman!”
“I am not going after her. I am going after the man, given that our duke was too much of a coward to show up himself.” He glared down at her. “Stay right here and do not move a bloody inch, not even if the queen herself shows up, screaming at the door.”
Mary cast a wild glance toward the woman, who was just disappearing through the cathedral doors. The sight of the pistol in West’s hand made her stomach swirl, but so, too, did the thought of losing the woman who was such a significant clue. “But—”
“Your promise, Miss Channing.” But instead of waiting for an answer, he pressed a shocking, sudden kiss against her lips. And then he was off, sprinting toward the edge of the vestibule. She could do nothing but watch, her heart clawing its way up into her throat. She waited, every nerve stinging, terrified by the possibility of hearing a shot ring out, seeing him slump to the ground, blood spreading out around him.
But miraculously, no such sound reached her ears.
The sermon droned on, punctuated by the occasional, rattling snore from the congregation. The smell from the Thames outside swirled around her, just the same as before. And eventually Westmore returned, more slowly this time, his revolver close to his leg and pointing down toward the marble tile.
“Did you recognize him?” she demanded, trying not to look at his gun as he drew closer. But her eyes kept pulling toward it, fear skittering through her chest.
She decided that for once it was safer to stare at his sinfully shaped mouth.
“No.” Westmore didn’t even sound winded, though the pace he’d set in pursuit was impressive. “But I got a good look before he escaped. Dark hair, scar on his face. I would know him again if I saw him, but whoever he is, he’s gone.”
In spite of her resolve, Mary’s eyes drifted back down to follow the glint of steel sliding back into his pocket. Somehow, knowing Westmore came to St. Paul’s Cathedral armed made the situation seem more frightening, not less. Guns had never meant good things in her life.
“Was that in your trousers the entire time?” she asked weakly.
“Yes.” Bemusement eased the tension in his jaw. “If you continue to make a habit of consorting with me, you will find that I am always prepared.”
“Do you even know how to use it?” Though, he had very much looked as though he did.
“Miss Channing.” He leaned one shoulder against a marble column, almost casually, drat the man. “I’ll have you know I know how to use everything in my trousers.”
Her cheeks heated, as he must have known they would. She was beginning to have the sense that he said these things just to garner some reaction from her, some outward sign of discomfit. But now was not the time to ponder his purpose, and so she pushed those thoughts aside to deal with the notion at hand, which was more intriguing—and frightening—than what Mr. Westmore may or may not be hiding in his trousers.
“Did you hear what they said?” she whispered.
The corners of his mouth slid south. “I heard. You were correct, it seems. It’s the queen.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Not that having a target in mind is going to help anyone believe us, mind you. I need proof I can take before Scotland Yard. A piece of paper, a witness who can be trusted. Either that or someone in our custody, offering a confession.”
She glanced toward the edge of the vestibule, where the man had disappeared. Westmore might have had a very good chance of catching the suspect if he hadn’t been distracted by making sure she was safe. “I am sorry if I slowed you down.”
“Slow me down? What on earth are you talking about?”
“If you hadn’t paused to . . . er . . . argue with me, you might have been able to catch him. Now we have lost them both.”
He reached out a hand. “I didn’t pause to argue with you, Miss Channing.” He dragged a gloved finger across her lower lip, making something other than fear bloom inside her. “I paused to kiss you. Two very different things. So if we have lost him, the fault is mine.”
“Oh,” she breathed.
He stared down at her, as if working through a mathematical formula. “Besides, we may have lost our clue to our duke, but we have gained another. I recognized the woman.”
Surprise slid through her. “You did?”
“Her name is Vivian. She works at a nearby brothel.”
Mary’s ears burned with something that might have been envy. If anyone would recognize such a woman, she supposed, of course it would be Westmore. She ought to be glad he possessed such knowledge, if it helped them track a traitor.
And she was. She was.
However he’d acquired this knowledge, he was using it for the Crown.
“If we find this woman,” Mary said, “we might be able to halt the flow of money and extract the confession we need.”
“Precisely.” He offered her a grudging smile. “The only question is, are you going to follow me there, too?”
Chapter 9
Madame Xavier’s looked different enough in the daylight that West’s feet hesitated on the front steps. With its red shutters and crimson brick walls, the three-story building seemed less like a brothel and more like a respectable home.
He’d been here on enough occasions to be well-acquainted with the establishment, but always at night, always with Grant, and always deep into his cups.
But daylight revealed surprising new distractions. The building boasted a Palladian architecture, its pediments and symmetry on clear display should one have the wherewithal to look. West ran a finger along one column, remembering that old, dusty piece of his life, a time when he’d been eager to attend classes at university, when he imagined a future creating things more memorable than a good prank.
Perhaps therein lay the problem. Had he ever really looked at this house? Or the women who worked here
? He generally spent his time here sitting in the receiving room while Grant busied himself abovestairs. He belted out bawdy tunes on the pianoforte and teased the scantily clad women until they blushed like schoolgirls, but he’d never lingered on the front steps with enough sobriety and presence of mind to pay attention to the shape of the columns.
Perhaps he ought to have, especially given that he wasn’t particularly interested in the more carnal offerings on the menu.
Scarlet, the one woman at Madame Xavier’s with whom he could claim a prior acquaintance, had sought him out, not the other way around. He’d treated her like a proper gentleman, even taking her to the opera, but the distraction she offered had ended weeks ago.
Not that Scarlet seemed to understand it was over.
With his hand against Miss Channing’s elbow, they stepped through the front door. No matter the Palladian exterior, upon stepping inside, Westmore was reminded that he was taking Miss Channing to a place that was anything but respectable. The house’s red color scheme had been extended inside to include the floor covers and the drapery. The rich proliferation of red somehow seemed more obscene in sunlight, pink shadows spinning across the floor.
Miss Channing’s eyes were as wide as saucers, her head swiveling to take it all in. “I can’t believe I’ve come from St. Paul’s Cathedral to a brothel, all in the space of an hour,” she breathed. “It’s like falling straight from heaven to hell.”
West chuckled. “Some might say it’s the other way around.”
He’d have liked to say more, to explain that Madame Xavier’s brothel was legendary. That some of the girls were cultured, even educated, and more than one of them could spend an evening engaging a gentleman in political discourse as easily as bed sport. But explaining any of this to Miss Channing, who had clearly already formed a strong opinion of his character and this place based on the oppressive line of her lips, seemed like a waste of breath.
Bald truths would be unlikely to win him any favor where she was concerned. Better to keep his knowledge of the place under wraps.
The Perks of Loving a Scoundrel Page 10
