“What?” The man seemed so taken back, Jonathan focused on him more sharply.
“I was told the senior constable would only release her to me. I’m Lord Aldridge.”
“She must cook a real treat.” The clerk leered.
“I beg your pardon?” Jonathan checked his step forward and turned back to stare at the man.
“No offense.” The clerk scrambled back behind his desk. “Just . . . you’re the fourth gentleman come for her since Mr. Gilbert brung her in. There’s a tug o’ war going on in there over her now.”
Jonathan turned his attention back to the passageway, and stepped through.
It was very crowded.
A cell full of men was immediately to his right, and they were pressed up hard against the bars, straining to see as much as possible. At the far end of the passage, Wittaker stood with two other men. Just beyond them was a smaller cell and he could see Bisset standing up against the cell door, along with Madame Levéel.
She looked past Wittaker and saw him, and he held her gaze. There was relief in her eyes, and resentment, and a hot, well-stoked anger.
That shaken-bottle-of-champagne feeling came over him again.
“Lord Aldridge.” She called out his name so her words cut through the commotion, and for a moment, there was absolute silence as everyone turned to him.
Wittaker started in first. “I say, Aldridge, you having your cook arrested has caused me all sorts of inconvenience. I was about to take Harriford for his yearly allowance when Bisset interrupted me to come down and get her. What’s going on? According to my chef she’s an angel in the kitchen, and we’re taking her with us. So your loss. Ha-ha.”
Jonathan opened his mouth to reply and then stopped. And stared at one of the other two men.
He knew him. He’d seen him only a few days ago, and he’d felt an instant dislike for him.
Frobisher! The man whose rumor about Giselle Barrington had sent Dervish off to Stockholm.
“What on earth are you doing here?” He didn’t think he mistook the way Frobisher pushed back against the cold stone wall at the sight of him, or the wild-eyed look he’d been giving Wittaker before he noticed Jonathan.
“You know this man?” the final man in the room asked.
“Who are you?” Jonathan got the impression of someone quick and alert, before his gaze strayed back to Madame Levéel. She tightened her grip on the bars.
“Gilbert. Senior constable, Queen Square Public Office.”
Jonathan didn’t like the way he spoke; a sharp sliver of contempt scraped the edge of his words raw. When Jonathan swung back to him, Gilbert held his gaze with a cocky aggressiveness that held only the slimmest thread of nerves.
Jonathan was tired, and his coating of polite manners had been rubbed almost through. Under the gold plate were all manner of reactions no one here would like.
He had not fought and killed in Spain, become one of the most decorated officers in his regiment, by being polite.
“I don’t know why you arrested my cook—particularly as I understand there was no crime, or evidence of a crime—but I would like her out of this cell immediately,” he said coldly.
“First you want her in, now you want her out?” Wittaker asked him, and despite his drunken rambling earlier, Jonathan could see the gleam of wicked intelligence in his eye. It didn’t surprise him.
Wittaker was no one’s fool, and Jonathan had long suspected that at least half the time he only pretended to be drunk.
“I never wanted her in.” He looked back at Madame Levéel and reached out to hold the same bars as she, his fingers closing around the cold metal just above hers. His gaze never left her face. “I never wanted you in. I promise, I had no idea about this until I came home.”
She gave a tiny nod and then looked past him to Frobisher, eyeing the Foreign Office man like a feral dog off its leash. “Who is that?” she asked.
He turned, and as he did so he realized Frobisher had been edging away from them all toward the door. As their eyes met, Frobisher shoved Wittaker out of the way and ran.
“Get him!” Madame Levéel’s call was urgent.
Instinctively he took up the chase, back, for a moment, in the steep mountains of Spain. But he only got three steps when he realized he didn’t care about Frobisher. The man could run all he liked, shove dukes out the way, and ruin his career. It was nothing to Jonathan. The only important thing here was to get Madame Levéel out of that cell.
He brought himself up short and turned back.
Everyone was staring at him. He noticed Gilbert had lost his sneer.
“No hiding that you’re a military man, Aldridge.” Wittaker straightened his coat and righted himself from the shove. “Why did you stop? You could have had him, man.”
“Yes.” Jonathan looked back at Madame Levéel. “He wasn’t important.”
“He was important.” Her hands were fists at her side, her eyes flashing. “You need to get him! He’ll go to ground now.” She stamped her foot. Actually stamped it. When he didn’t move, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “You couldn’t know. But . . . you should have stopped him.”
She turned to Gilbert, and now her eyes were narrow, her voice clipped. “You said you’d release me to Lord Aldridge. Well, there he is.”
No one in the room could mistake her bitterness, or her resentment at having her freedom dependent on someone else.
Bisset had been quiet until now, standing a step back and watching them all. He stepped forward and put a hand on Madame Levéel’s shoulder. “When these imbéciles let you out, you will come home safe with me.”
“You’d be most welcome,” Wittaker said magnanimously, as if his chef had asked his opinion on the matter.
She didn’t say anything for a moment. She patted Bisset’s hand absently and gave Wittaker a nod. “Thank you both. I will need to get my things from Lord Aldridge’s, and I need to speak to him privately. Perhaps it would be best for me to stay with you for a day or two, while that stallu is still on the loose.”
“Stallu?” Gilbert frowned.
“The man who pushed His Grace aside to run off. The man who pretended his name was Miller.” Madame Levéel glared at him. “The man to whom you were going to hand me over.” Her tone was heavy with recrimination.
“That was the stallu?” A wo6man in a rough-cut gown stepped forward, coming to Jonathan’s attention for the first time.
“Would someone tell me what a stallu is?” Gilbert’s voice was whip-sharp.
“A bogeyman from Lapland. Everyone knows that,” one of the prisoners from the men’s cell called out. There was the sound of muted sniggering.
“Frobisher gave his name as Miller?” Jonathan asked, trying to work through the ramifications. If Frobisher was on official Foreign Office business, if he had a legal right to take Madame Levéel into custody, why had he run?
“Whoever he is, he wants to kill my Gigi. That’s enough reason to keep her close.” Bisset put his arm around her.
Kill her?
Jonathan thought of the way she’d behaved since he’d met her, of her fear when she walked alone, of the risks she’d taken to get away from the man watching Dervish’s house, and wondered what the hell Frobisher was up to. “If she feels safer with you and wishes to leave me after we’ve spoken, I will bring her around personally. You have my word.” Jonathan was simply grateful she would speak to him at all.
Gilbert stepped forward with a key and then hesitated, leaving it just short of the lock. “I may have erred a time or two in today’s business, madam, but there’s one thing I know I’m right on: you’re not who you seem.”
“And that’s a crime, is it?” One of the other women in the cell sneered, pushing a loose purple sleeve back up her shoulder. “No one can have anything private, is that right?”
“You don’t keep much private as a matter of course, Gertie.” Gilbert shot her a look of pure dislike, and she bared her teeth in a dangerous smile.
> “Frobisher knows I’m in London now.” Madame Levéel gave a shrug. “Let me out, let Gertrude, Bess and Violet out, too—I know it’s time for you to release them, anyway—and I’ll tell you.”
Gilbert hesitated another moment, and Jonathan put a hand on his arm. He said nothing; anger at the way Gilbert was toying with them clamped his throat too tight.
Gilbert looked up at him, his face annoyed, until their gazes clashed. Then he staggered back, snatching his arm away, and fumbled in his hurry to get the lock open.
“No hiding it at all,” Wittaker murmured.
The door swung open and Madame Levéel stepped out, with Bisset and three prostitutes right behind her.
“Well, go on. Tell ’im.” The one with the purple dress looked decidedly smug. Like she was about to see Gilbert receive a nasty shock, Jonathan thought.
“You were right, Mr. Gilbert.” Madame Levéel suddenly spoke English with the crystal-clear tones of a young lady of the ton. “I’m not really a French cook, although that’s what I’ve been pretending to be for the last week. My name is Giselle Barrington.”
33
To her surprise, Lord Aldridge looked stunned. Curiously, she caught a flash of surprise on the duke’s face as well.
“You—” Aldridge seemed unable to speak. “You are Miss Barrington?”
She gave a nod. “You may remember my parents, Lord Aldridge, as my house is just a few doors down from yours. Goldfern.”
He didn’t look intrigued; he didn’t look surprised. He looked furious. She frowned.
“You . . .” He pointed a finger at her, then lifted his hands as if he would like to put them around her neck.
“I think a private talk with Aldridge is not a good idea, eh?” Georges drew her closer to him. “We go straight ’ome, mon seigneur,” he told Wittaker, giving the order easily.
A flash of amusement crossed Wittaker’s face, accompanied by not a little measure of curiosity. “You all right, Aldridge?” he asked.
Lord Aldridge looked at his raised hands and then shoved his fingers into hair that already looked wild, as though he’d been pulling on it for some time.
He ignored Wittaker, he ignored everyone else. He looked only at her. “Why?” It was the first coherent word he’d managed.
She thought of the kisses they’d shared, of the way they seemed to spark off each other, and knew her fears regarding what he’d think about it when her true identity was revealed had been fully justified.
He must feel betrayed by her—trapped or fooled.
“I don’t think Lord Aldridge intends me any harm, Georges. Let me go with him and get my things, and then he can bring me over to you. He deserves an explanation. And I have something I need to give him.”
Wittaker looked even more interested. He hesitated with his lips pursed and then turned to Aldridge. “If we don’t have her back in two hours, old chap, I’m afraid we’ll come looking for her.” He played the word-slurring insouciant well, but there was something much harder, much sharper in his eyes as he clapped Aldridge on the shoulder.
Aldridge shrugged him off, and Gigi saw a tense, suppressed violence in the action. Aldridge played a different role than Wittaker, putting on a milder, more polite and sensible persona, but, like Wittaker’s, it was only a thin disguise.
There was a sleek strength and a frighteningly focused determination under the calm, gentlemanly facade.
It should have made her nervous to leave with him, but it didn’t.
Gertrude, Violet and Bess watched the byplay with enjoyment, but Gilbert was tugging his waistcoat with a nervous hand, his eyes flitting between the two noblemen as if suddenly aware he was confined in a small space with two dangerous animals.
He edged past them all and flourished an arm toward the front office. “As you all seem to have plenty to do . . .”
“Go well, Gigi.” Gertrude leaned over and gave her a smacking kiss on the cheek. “And good luck with that stallu, love.”
Bess gave her a small smile and Violet a brief nod, and they walked past Gilbert with their heads high and a slight sway to their walk.
“Don’t let me catch you again,” Gilbert said to their backs.
Gertrude looked over her shoulder at him. “It’ll be a pleasure to keep clear of ya.” She flounced the last few steps and disappeared into the front office.
Gigi followed after them and turned at the door. “I believe you have a number of things belonging to me, Mr. Gilbert?”
He flushed and moved past her, took out a key, and walked to a small office. While she stood waiting for him, Georges came to stand very close. Wittaker leaned against the doorway to the back cells, watchful. His presence caused the whole station to quieten.
Not often that a real duke came to Queen Square.
“I can come with you to Aldridge House,” Georges murmured, but Gigi took one look at Aldridge, standing tense and apart from everyone, and shook her head.
“Aldridge and I need to talk privately.” She took the velvet bags Gilbert held out to her, and tipped them onto a nearby table. Then she went through them one by one.
“You think there’ll be any missing?” Gilbert spoke through clenched teeth.
She shrugged and continued with her check until she was satisfied she had every piece. Then she gathered the ribbon handles in one hand and looked up. Aldridge was watching her, his face unreadable. She held out her free hand to him and he stepped up to her and crooked his elbow.
She slipped her arm through.
It should have felt safe and normal. Instead, it felt as if she were about to plunge herself into a raging rapid, to be tumbled and thrown about.
“Two hours, Aldridge.” Wittaker had dropped his drunken-aristocrat facade entirely.
Aldridge slowed a step, but that was the only acknowledgment he gave Wittaker’s threat. He led her out of the station and put her into the waiting cab without a word. While he called up to the driver, she tried to find some calm, to stop her heart racing like a mail coach trying to catch the last boat.
Aldridge swung up into the cab and sat opposite her.
She could see he was still struggling to contain his reaction to her true identity.
“I am sorry.” She clasped her hands together on her lap. “I understand you must be angry with me. The way we dealt with each other . . . I know it would not have been the same if you’d known who I was. I have no excuse for allowing you to kiss me, and all I can say is that it puts no obligation upon you at all.”
He stared at her, for one long beat after another, until she was squirming, her cheeks hot. “You’re trying to set my mind at rest about the proprieties?”
He sounded not only angry but disgusted. And why would he not? She’d set herself outside polite society with what she’d done. She’d accepted it at the time, but the reality of it was harder than she’d anticipated.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and drew in a deep breath. “How did you come to be in my house?”
“Georges.” She frowned. “Why aren’t you asking me why again? I never answered you.”
“Because I know some of the why.” He propped a shoulder against the wall of the cab as it bounced over loose cobbles. “But if you’d like a why, why were you risking yourself every day, watching Goldfern?”
She ignored that. “How do you know some of the why? Who are you?”
“A person who could have helped you right from the start if you’d told me the truth.”
The accusation in his voice burned her deep, and she reared up against it like a horse in battle. “I don’t know how much you know of my business, but how could I have told you the truth? I had no idea who to go to, who had been my father’s contact.”
“Why didn’t you approach Wittaker himself?”
He was near the edge of his temper. She could see it in the way his nostrils flared.
She rubbed her arms. “I have something important to hand over, although perhaps you know that, too?” She couldn’t keep
the sarcasm from her voice. “Georges thought Wittaker might throw it in the fire, because he is angry at the Crown over some tax dispute. I couldn’t take that chance.”
He tapped on his knee with long, blunt fingers. “I can understand your not wanting to hand over a letter from the tsar, which opens the way for a secret treaty between England and Russia, to someone who might throw it into the fire.”
She wasn’t even surprised anymore that he knew so much. She lifted her skirt and drew the letter from the secret pocket in her petticoat, then held it out to him. “My father died for this letter. I couldn’t take the easy route and give it to just anyone.”
“No.” He took it without looking at it, his eyes on her, bracing his other hand on the side of the coach as it shuddered over the rough road. Slowly, he slid the parchment into the inner pocket of his jacket.
She felt no great relief, no lessening of the grief that sat on her heart like a stone, at giving up her burden.
Sadness and a sense of loss came over her, mixing with her exhaustion. She wondered how much he must dislike her.
“I really am sorry for hiding in your house. I needed a place to get my bearings, to work out what to do next. I was still very . . . upset . . . about my father’s murder. It seemed the perfect solution.”
She cast her eyes down to her lap to avoid the bright blue gaze that seemed to burn through her. Her skin was too tight all of a sudden, too confining.
“Two others and myself have been working night and day to discover whether you’re alive and well. One of us, Lord Dervish, rushed off to Sweden because we’d heard you might still be there. Except the whole time, you’ve been under my own roof, taking risk after risk with your life.” Those bright eyes were snapping with temper.
She blinked. And in that down-up movement of her eyelids the anger she’d been fighting all day sprang fully to hot, leaping life, pushing aside her guilt, her sense of loss, her self-pity.
She gave a deliberately laconic shrug and leaned back against the cracked leather of the seat. “Well, accept my apologies, Lord Aldridge, for not informing you. I didn’t know you were involved with my father’s sideline. I didn’t have a single name, thanks to being kept continually in the dark. I knew the value of what I carried with me, and I also knew that the man who killed my father worked for the Foreign Office. I couldn’t trust anyone I didn’t know, and I didn’t know anyone except Georges.”
Banquet of Lies Page 22
