With trembling hands, Jade returned to opening packages of French lace trim, Spitalfields silk roses, and white sarcenet for quilling. Just a short while before, the prospect of Abby’s gown had seemed exciting, but Jade’s joy in the task dimmed for wondering who the stranger might be, what threat he posed, and how she would answer it.
As near to reaching her goal as to Abigail’s fairytale wedding, ’twas not the time for any of grandfather’s despicable deeds to come calling. No, nor for grandmother’s devastating secret to rear its ugly head, either.
In the study, Marcus went over the accounts he’d copied and brought from Jade’s banker detailing her cousin, Mr. Giles Dudley’s theft, when Marcus received a message about Dudley, himself, from the Bow Street Runner he’d hired. It seemed Cousin Dudley had been sighted in nearby Lewes, a village away, while former man-of-affairs Neil Kirby appeared to have disappeared from the face of the earth.
The Runner invited Marcus to the Dragon and Claw, in Lewes, for a bit of ale and perhaps a confrontation with Jade’s cousin that very evening.
Marcus went to find his brother and announce his intention of going.
Garrett swore. “I wish to bloody hell I could go with you. Suppose the man’s worse than a thief; you could get yourself hurt.”
“I’d love to have you along, though you’d have to ride, which you haven’t done in ages.”
Garrett cursed. “As I’ve set my mind on your attending me at my wedding next week as groomsman, I think it wise someone cover your back. Fact is, I’ve been doing a lot of things I haven’t done in ages.” Garrett grinned.
Marcus chuckled, elated at the prospect of his brother’s company as well as his rekindled interest in all aspects of life. “Come with me, then.”
“I’m not certain I’ve regained enough strength in my thighs to keep my seat,” Garrett admitted with disgust, until the devil entered his eyes. “Though I suppose it couldn’t be much different from—”
Marcus coughed and got behind the wheelchair. “On that interesting note, let me take you to the stable to show you what I had made up for you in London. When I returned, you were so blue-devilled, I hadn’t the heart to show you, or get your hopes up. But by damn, I think you’re ready now.”
Once Garrett agreed to use the strap-device to keep him in his saddle, Marcus brought him back to his room to change into riding clothes, and went in search of Jade. He’d just tell her he needed to go to Lewes on business with Garrett.
Because he had not wanted to get her hopes up about destroying Dudley’s chance of changing her grandmother’s will, he hadn’t told her Dudley was stealing from her. He’d let her assume tonight’s meeting had to do with the railroad.
He stopped in the middle of the stairs. She’d probably get it into her stubborn head to follow them. Better to leave without talking to her. Shaking his head, Marcus turned around and started back down.
Beecher chuckled behind him.
“Saw that did you?” Marcus said, chagrined to have been caught.
Beecher smiled good-naturedly as they went down the next flight side by side. “The lass’s got you coming and going she has, but mark my words, Marcus, my boy, there’s none more worth going muzzy over than our Jade.”
“I know.” Marcus grinned. He’d begun to think there was hope for them, real hope, now that Garrett was regaining his legs. If only he could keep the railroad on its tracks, and keep himself grounded, as well. He shook his head again. “How am I ever going to catch her if she’s got me chasing my own tail, I’d like to know.”
Beecher slapped him on the back. “If you stop and wait long enough, she’ll catch you.”
Marcus regarded the medical man quizzically. “Perhaps someday I’ll figure that out. Meanwhile, if she or Abigail comes looking, tell them Garr and I took a ride over to Tidemills, and we won’t be back until late. Tell Jade I’ll see her in the morning.”
Now it was Beecher’s turn to shake his head, though his eyes appeared actually to twinkle.
Marcus should have known that he and Jade hadn’t fooled the old codger. He was as close to a grandfather as Jade had. ’Twas a wonder the medical man hadn’t aimed a pistol at him weeks ago, considering his previous sleeping arrangements.
Lord, he missed having Jade beside him at night.
Marcus shook off his melancholy and clapped the observant Beecher on the back. “Just tell her. And, thanks, old man.”
As Jade slipped her arms into Marcus’s bottle green frockcoat to wear with her trousers for her trip to Lewes, she was as worried about Emily as she was glad that Marcus had left for the evening. Em had been sleeping through the night lately, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t wake up crying tonight. It would break her heart if Em came looking for comfort and none was to be found.
Though Jade intended to be back early, she decided to ask Lacey if she wouldn’t mind sleeping in her bed until she returned, in case Emily woke.
When Lacey agreed, Jade felt better and was able to mount her Chestnut and set off toward Lewes with one less worry on her mind, which allowed her to concentrate on her current problem. What did this stranger know about her grandfather? All the way to Lewes, she pondered the worst possible scenario—that the stranger meant to blackmail her.
Jade entered Lewes proper as lavender streaked the horizon and she went directly to question the source of Lester’s information.
Desmoiselles Paulette and Liette Lague, modistes extraordinaire, welcomed her with enthusiasm, expressing an immediate and useless desire to reproduce her ensemble pantalons, her trouser-costume, for their customers.
Besides being forward-thinking, they were supremely talented, honestly of French heritage, carried the choicest yard goods, and designed the best fashions this side of London and Paris. Other than their penchant for bickering over which of them was the favourite of their Chere Maman, La Belle Jeannette, the famous opera singer, they were beautiful and sweet, rare jewels among French modistes.
Though the dears were as welcoming as Jade expected, there was little more they could tell her, except that the apothecary had later said the stranger was staying at the Dragon and Claw.
Before Jade left, Mademoiselle Paulette told her that the once respectable hostelry had degenerated to more of an ale house than an inn and catered now to a very low-class clientele. Wringing her hands, Paulette begged Jade not to go there.
Liette begged her to take their stooped and aging butler for protection, else forget, “le filthy peeg.”
Determined to find the stranger whose very purpose spoke of threat, Jade kissed their rouge-pot cheeks and tactfully declined any and all suggestions.
If finding her quarry meant stepping into the teeth of perdition, ragtag patrons and all, then step into hell she would.
Chapter Eighteen
The seventeenth-century beam and plaster building sat sandwiched between the office of a high-brow barrister and Lady Teal’s Rooming House, an infamous den of wickedness hiding behind an innocuous facade.
As Jade approached the Dragon and Claw, half its departing patrons were en route to Lady Teal’s, and the other half reeked and staggered, retched and belched, nearly enough to change her mind and turn her homeward.
Nearly, but not quite.
Glad she’d purloined a caped coat with matching tweed cap from Marcus’s room at the last minute, Jade pulled the cap low over her forehead and stood the coat’s collar up to hide as much of her face as possible before she entered.
The interior of the inn, lit solely by a pair of tallow candles in greasy wall sconces, stank of stale ale, whisky, yesterday’s mutton, and the great unwashed.
This clientele meant business, most having a row of empty tankards at hand.
Jade sidled up to a deserted table in a far corner, hoping to catch the barmaid’s eye. She intended to question the woman, whose breasts spilled nearly from her bodice and whose apron hadn’t seen a wash since Victoria took the throne.
While Jade awaited the server’s a
rrival, she scanned faces, ravaged by indigence and dissipation, and saw almost at once, a visage that stood the hair at her nape and sent a shudder racing through her.
What would Neil Kirby be doing in a place like this? Her former man of affairs was as fastidious as he was dishonest, possibly more so.
By the dressmakers’ earlier description—short, beady eyes, pug nose—Neil Kirby could very well be the stranger carrying information about her grandfather, but Jade doubted it.
While in her employ, Kirby had lived at Peacehaven for nearly two years. Why would he wait until now to show his hand, and why not come to her front door?
Yes, she’d discharged him, but they were both civil, though she supposed, now that she thought on it, he might have been affronted enough to seek revenge.
Or perhaps he wasn’t through with cheating her.
Perhaps he’d learned something about her grandfather ... from her grandmother? Jade shivered. It had never occurred to her before, but Gram, in her disoriented state, toward the end of her life, might have been confused enough to tell the snake her secret. But why wait until now to reveal it?
The possibility alone made Jade ill. What would she do if Kirby had uncovered the truth?
If that viper had stumbled across it, others could as well, including her greedy cousin, Giles Dudley. If he did, she’d lose everything her grandmother had worked so hard to attain, and the women who needed her, now and in the future, would suffer.
Jade tried to remember if Giles Dudley’s threat had arrived before or after Neil Kirby left her employ, but she couldn’t be certain. Either way, if Neil Kirby held such information, she would pay.
Perhaps his information concerned the railroad. Then again, in a roundabout way, Gram’s secret concerned the railroad ... and now she’d closed the circle. She’d best stop driving herself mad with speculation, and move close enough to hear what her former man of affairs had to say to the lecher ogling the barmaid.
Jade rose unobtrusively, she hoped, to change to a table near the object of her concern, while attempting to remain unnoticed by said object.
A man with forty hands, all grabbing her at once, seemed to come from nowhere. She’d been so busy watching Kirby, she’d not seen what or who stood about her.
Bald as a turnip and reeking of onions, her captor must have seen through her male disguise, for he held her in his unrelenting clutches. With a grip like iron, he steered her out of the common room and halfway up the stairs before Jade caught her breath and tried to resist, her heart drumming a wild beat.
Fighting him, however, seemed like trying to stop a steam engine with less than a stuffed dress on the tracks.
When Jade stopped caring about making a scene and gave voice to her silent scream, the man’s stinking mouth swooped down on hers and she gagged.
He jumped back so fast, she might have laughed, if not for her fast tumble down the stairs, her balance having flagged with his support. Before she could stand, Onion Breath caught her by the seat of her pants and the collar of her coat, with those beefy hands of his, and shoved her back up, her collar cutting her windpipe and severing her air.
Despite the black dots dancing before her eyes, Jade caught him by surprise when she turned about and used her knee to best advantage, a move she had discovered by accident, to the detriment of Marcus’s manhood, or so he’d said.
It worked. Onion Breath took the stairs the fast way now, in an unexpected rush of a howling rumble, and Jade screamed like a madwoman. The way her luck had been running, ’t’would be Kirby come to her rescue, if only to save his blackmail mark.
The man who pulled her into his arms from behind did not surprise her but he did infuriate her. Pushed beyond bearing, Jade pummelled, kicked, bit and scratched the detestable man who’d sold her land and started her problems. “I will not—” She punctuated her words with kicks, “be touched by the likes of you! You thieving lout!”
Her harried rescuer evaded her every attempt to back-kick his soft man parts. “Let me go!”
He stepped back, arms raised in surrender.
Turning, viewing him through a haze of red, Jade gaped then gasped. “Marcus!” Flying into his arms, she burst into tears, and was no sooner enveloped in his blessed embrace, than her relief ended.
Without warning, Marcus, the only bulwark between her and ravishment slid to the floor in an unconscious heap.
However entertained Garrett might once have been by such a solicitous, bountifully-endowed barmaid, such overtures now disgusted him, and he wanted nothing more than to meet with Marc’s Bow Street Runner and depart these squalid premises.
Where had Marc gone?
When the investigator failed to arrive well beyond the specified hour, and Marc remained absent more than half that time, Garrett called to the calf-eyed barmaid.
She came, overeager and ready to play, and he pushed her off his lap and gave her a guinea to stop her attempts to, “’arden ’is dally-boy.”
Despite his annoyance, Garrett couldn’t wait to relate the tale to Abby, for his dally-boy needed no assistance with her nearby.
“I need your help,” he said to the barmaid, and cursed himself for the light in her eyes. “I’m looking for my ... cousin. We came in together. Did you see where he went? ’Twas about half an hour ago.”
“Saw nobody but you, Guv.” She tested her guinea’s authenticity and whooped in delight to find it real. “Regular Lonnon dandy, arn’cha?”
“Can you find me a cane?”
“Wot?”
“Fact is, if I were a dandy, I would already own one. Wait, make that two.”
Confusion pure and simple transformed the wench’s features.
“You know, a walking stick. I’ll give you five pounds if you bring me two.” Garrett held up two fingers, then he opened his pocket watch. “Two canes within the next five minutes for five pounds.”
She was gone like a shot. Money, she spoke fluently.
Marcus awoke in a dim hole on a hard floor, a gag in his mouth, his feet hobbled, hands tied, head aching.
Penned in. Unable to move.
Awareness came to him in slow measure until memory intruded and alarm raced his heart.
Jade.
Knowing his panic would do her no good, he took a deep breath and tried to think rationally. It was then he caught the scent of the pelt near his face. Lavender.
Jade. And he could hear her breathing. Safe. With him.
In a blink, his heart’s rhythm calmed and he considered the hovel in which they lay. At his back, a wall—immovable. At his head, a wall—movable?—a door then. At his feet, a wooden box, or ... the underbelly of a stair-step. A closet beneath a set of stairs, perhaps. Jade along his front, crushed against him, bound as well.
Jade. His perfect match. His heart. Safer tied and locked away with him than with the bastard who’d tried to abduct her. When he got them free, Marcus vowed, he’d not rest until he caught the brute and beat him to a pulp.
In any other circumstance, he’d ask Jade what the hell she was doing in a hovel like this, and in no soft voice, either, but his gag prevented anything more than a grunt, to which she did not respond. Bloody hell.
Jade, quiet, too quiet. The aspect frightened him, pricked his arms and legs with needles, and brought a lump of fear to lodge in his throat.
He grunted again, louder, more urgent, but received no response.
With her hair against his cheek, he couldn’t tell if she faced away from him or if her hair covered her face.
With his chin, he attempted to move some of the silk aside and managed to find her ear, beside which ran a sticky substance with a metallic scent. Blood.
Injured? Oh, God how bad?
Not knowing from whence the blood flowed, or how much she’d lost, Marcus feared moving, feared causing further damage, but he had to get her out of here.
On the off chance the door at his head would give, or that someone might hear it rattle, Marcus head-butted it a good one.
/> Stars danced before his eyes. Awareness blurred and faded.
Garrett sat wishing he’d started walking ages ago. Damn. “Stubborn fool,” he called himself as he scanned the crowd of thugs.
He caught sight of a huge bald brute with a bloody nose and vile disposition, judging by the sneer with which baldy eyed the crowd. His fresh injury worried Garrett. Perhaps Marc had been involved, and hurt. Or he got caught in a scuffle with that Dudley character, Jade’s supposed cousin.
Garrett realized that the Bow Street Runner’s absence should have alerted him sooner. “Damn.”
Holding to a raw, dusty beam Garrett rose to scan the crowd for further signs of pugilism run amuck, but only two other fellows bore bruises and they looked to be healing.
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