She kept her face clear at the word “affair.”
Her father continued. “Our family has an interest in the person named as his father. Winterton had confirmed it to us and has undertaken to check the facts. So far, he says, they are correct, pertaining to dates. It appears the certificate told the truth.” He paused. “Needless to say, you cannot remain betrothed to him.”
“Father, no!” The words burst from her before she had time to stop them.
Her father gave her one of his quelling stares. “I am considerably lenient with my children, far more than many men I know, but I will not be disobeyed. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Papa.” Recovering herself, she lowered her head in a submissive gesture. Not that her father’s words would make any difference. If she wanted Dominic, she would have him, one way or another. And she wanted him. The only thing stopping her going after him was his doubts and his distress should she cause a breach in her family. He would feel responsible, and Heaven knew he was good at shouldering responsibility, even when he hadn’t caused it.
“Very well. Then what do we do?” He sighed. “This business seems to be caught up in that house you inherited. Unfortunately, Julius has prevailed upon me to retain the property because it’s a known center and he hopes to discover more from the people there. You must remain the owner for some time yet. Equally unfortunately, we cannot buy it from you from the terms in your aunt’s will.”
Leaning back in his chair, he sighed and laced his fingers over his stomach. “I know my children do not always tell me everything they do, but in this case, my dear, I must insist. That house is dangerous. You must not set foot over the threshold again.”
“Again?”
He rolled his eyes. “Do you think I am completely blind? At the time I would have sent someone for you, but I did realize what you were up to after you returned home. You are wild to a fault, Claudia. You are Lady Claudia Shaw, the daughter of the Marquess of Strenshall, and like it or not, you owe something to that position. Please consider that more in future. You are not a child anymore. You must stop behaving like one.”
Tears pricked her eyes. Such a scolding was worse than a beating, not that her father indulged in beatings often. Reproaches, he could win trophies for those. Especially hitting the mark.
Yes, recently she’d come to that realization. All her petty rebellions led to nothing. She needed something to do, a cause, a life. Something. She might have found it, but if she went off in her usual headstrong way, people would consider her a fool. Racing in the Park was all well and good for an eighteen-year-old, but at twenty-four she should show more maturity.
On the other hand, she would not allow her father to shame her into behaving exactly as he wanted. She would just re-think her strategies. She would never forget her exhilaration when she climbed that tree or urged her horse to a gallop. Even entering the house in Hart Street had given her a thrill she had rarely found anywhere else.
Only in Dominic’s bed. The safest man she knew had proved a wild man in bed.
Oh, yes, she wanted that part again.
“How is your arm?”
“Much better, Papa. There will be a scar, but not a bad one, and it’s too low to show over my gowns.”
Her father smiled. “That of course is the important thing.” His eyes smiled too, demonstrating his words were meant ironically. “When you’re ready to return to society, remember what I told you. Make me proud of you.”
She got to her feet and bobbed a curtsey. “Livia will do that for you, Papa, but I will undertake to do my best not to disoblige you.”
Lord Strenshall sighed. “I suppose that is something.”
Dominic sipped glumly at his coffee. The Cocoa-Tree didn’t serve the best coffee in London. In fact, the brew was generally either insipid or gritty. Despite that, the place was frequently crowded.
Most of the customers here were Jacobites or did not object to mixing with them. Neither applied to him, but he had come here in the hope of noticing something or hearing something. To test the air, in case his secret had slipped out.
He leaned back, holding a newspaper he’d read at his breakfast table an hour before, but it provided a reason for him to be there. A few men, for only men frequented these places, apart from the serving girls and the woman at the cash desk by the door, discussed the affairs of the day. Most leaned over the tables, muttering and discussing the only matter that interested them—the return of the Stuarts to the throne.
Dominic had avoided this place up to now, but he needed something. A thread to follow, something new. He’d have to visit Hart Street again and start his nighttime prowling, something Claudia’s injury had put a temporary stop to.
He drank more coffee and tried not to grimace.
Someone sat at the table opposite him. Dominic looked up, frowning. He didn’t recognize the man. Dressed respectably but not extravagantly, the man had more of the air of a Cit than one of his kind. Cits were practical and usually honorable. They did business worth thousands on the strength of a handshake.
“Lord St. Just?”
Surprised, Dominic nodded. He wasn’t a prominent member of society, so to be recognized on sight by someone he was not acquainted with came as a surprise. “Do I know you, sir?”
“We have a mutual acquaintance.”
“We do?” Summoning all the hauteur of which he was capable, he raised a brow. “I’m sorry but I don’t recall…” A thought struck him. “Were you in the army?”
“Not yours.” The man nodded. “Yes, I was in that army. Any army that opposes the current regime.”
He didn’t even lower his voice, damn him. Here they could gossip all they wanted, especially when government spies came in. Dominic supposed he counted as one, but not in this man’s eyes. He was a messenger.
The man slid a note across the table. If he was involved in espionage, Dominic should have slapped his newspaper over it and later retrieved it. He couldn’t see the point. He picked it up.
“What’s this?”
“A message from our mutual acquaintance.” The man regarded him with no curiosity or interest. If he was working for the Jacobites and knew Dominic’s secret, he would expect more of a reaction.
“Do you require an answer?”
“No, it is in the message.”
He tipped his hat and got up, stopping at the desk to pay. Then he turned back and nodded before leaving the establishment. The cracked walls of this place held many secrets, most of them useless.
Dominic opened the note.
Dear Sir,
I would appreciate a meeting at midnight tonight at the place where you saw me last. I have bespoken a room. I will take it amiss if you do not come.
Such subterfuges went hard with Dominic, but he was involved, although he would have done anything not to be. He had no choice. He looked up, caught the intent gaze of a man with startling green eyes who was sitting at another table.
Tired of the place and sick of espionage, he screwed the enigmatic note up into a tight ball and pitched it at the fire. He stood and left the establishment.
That night, dressed in less flamboyant clothes than the ones he used in society, Dominic made his way to Hart Street. The spring was wearing on, and soon society would be leaving the city in favor of their country estates. He had none now. No doubt he’d find something to do.
He stood on the other side of the street, close to a wall, but not touching it. Heaven knew what was jettisoned from the upper windows every morning. The night-soil man was supposed to collect the more nauseating detritus. If a maid forgot a chamber pot, in a place like this she might just treat it the way they had been treated since London was built. The street certainly stank as if a lot of chamber pots had been omitted from the morning collections.
He’d known worse.
When a woman approached him, he smiled but shook his head. She was one of the lowest, the kind that toured the streets, but this close to St. Giles she was probably attached to a
gang. No sense inciting the ire of someone of that nature.
The woman shrugged, not bothering to lift the sleeve of her gown when it slipped down, and moved on.
The two men who followed her did not. They stood on either side of Dominic, and nudged him. “Into the house.”
This was not what he’d promised to do. He cursed himself that he’d allowed himself to fall into a trap. He should have known, should have guessed, but all his concentration was on keeping his secret. He’d hoped to come to an understanding with the Young Pretender. But what if the man had other ideas?
The hard object jabbed into his side felt enough like a pistol for him to decide not to take a chance that it was a walking stick. He walked across the street and entered the house.
Inside, the scene was much as before. Men sat or lay around, the women ministering to them. They were all in a state of undress, but none seemed to care. Dominic pulled his hat low on his forehead. The madam bustled up to greet them, only to find herself brushed away by one of the men at his side.
She nodded and gestured toward the stairs. “His honor is waitin’,” she said.
Dominic went up first. One of the bullies followed, his heavy tread depressing the planks. Another heavyset man waited at the top of the stairs. This one had the kind of creased and battered face that indicated prize-fighting. Probably one of the men attached to the house, but he seemed no more friendly than the other.
As a man accustomed to assessing situations rapidly, Dominic planned his exit. He’d have to risk his bones by jumping from an upstairs window if he had to escape in a hurry. This situation was not to his liking. Especially when the bully behind him tripped him into the arms of the one in front and relieved Dominic of his sword and the two pistols he’d stowed about his person. That left a knife, which he’d tucked into the back of his waistband, a trick he’d learned from a sailor on leave in Portsmouth. That blade had saved him a time or two. It might have to save him now. That or his fists.
Anyone else might live on hope. That this meeting would be civilized, that these were normal precautions for a claimant to the throne who was here clandestinely, but Dominic knew better. The last time he’d seen the man he was to meet, that man had been drunk, cavorting downstairs and with not a bodyguard in sight. He’d been inviting the authorities to arrest him. This meeting, he definitely wasn’t taking any risks.
The guard righted him and Dominic followed him to the room at the end, the one where he’d met Claudia before. At least he knew the geography of the place. These houses were older than the ones in the West End. If they were timber-based, he could break through to the house next door. His mind working rapidly, he stood and faced the other occupant of the room.
The guard shoved him, forcing him to take a step forward or fall to his knees. That was something this man would never see.
Two wall-sconces set with tarnished mirrors behind them illuminated the room, the fine beeswax candles incongruous in this untidy, dirty, stinking space. A single threadbare rug lay on the otherwise bare and dusty floor. Tawdry prints hung on the walls, no doubt of a lascivious nature. Dominic didn’t bother to find out. The pictures were fronted with glass. He could use the glass as another weapon, should he need it.
Would he kill the men in this room to get away if he had to? Oh, yes, for sure he would. Except all he needed was to gain control of the man sitting in the wooden chair with the high back opposite the window. The bed was tumbled, the sheets probably the same as when he was last here.
The memory of meeting Claudia here flashed through his mind and warmed him. At least he had that.
Feeling safer, he walked forward and bowed, but only the bow he would bestow to a gentleman, no lower. The man in the chair did not rise.
“So Stuart manners are as bad as they say?” Dominic said.
The man in the throne-like chair waved a hand. “You are dismissed.”
He was talking to the other man in the room, the one standing silently by the window with his arms crossed. Dominic recognized a man who could handle himself in a mêlée. Not just from the powerful build, but the air of stillness the man exuded like a scent.
“My orders are to remain here, your highness.”
Dominic glanced at him. “Does he know who I am?” he asked the Young Pretender. What should he call him? “Sir.”
“He knows everything. He is deep in my father’s confidence.”
What was that? What did the Pretender know?
Charles Stuart almost overflowed the chair. He’d made such good inroads into destroying the handsome legend of the ’forty-five that he would be unrecognizable to someone from that time. Dominic had heard tell that Flora MacDonald had come to London after she’d spirited her prince away to France. Become quite a celebrity from all accounts. They would have to get a bigger boat these days.
“I wanted to see my brother,” Stuart drawled. “Until now, I thought I only had one.” His pale blue eyes glinted in the soft light. He picked up a glass filled with red wine from the table at his elbow. One of the damned Jacobite glasses. He motioned to the decanter and spare glass. “You may drink.”
Refusing might appear petulant or worse. Dominic poured himself a glass, sipped, and tried not to grimace at the sharpness of the inferior wine. Men addicted to drink had no idea of the quality of the beverage, but up until now he hadn’t believed it. Perhaps the Pretender didn’t care.
Was he addicted to drink, or was that a rumor? The bloodshot eyes and a bulbous nose proclaimed the fact, but sometimes looks could be deceptive.
“We should drink to family,” the Pretender said.
“Until now, I thought my family was a different one,” Dominic said, keeping his tone mild. “I still only have a piece of paper that says otherwise. I take it proofs exist somewhere else?”
The man didn’t ask him to sit. Dominic strolled to the bed, and despite his distaste, perched on the edge of it, thus asserting his right to sit in this man’s presence. The Pretender waved a hand and the man in the corner didn’t move. “Intrigue is enough,” he said. “As are other proofs. Assertions taken under oath, for example.”
Ah, damn. Dominic covered his alarm by moving his head, letting the uneven light cast his face into light and shade. His parents were in danger. As long as they were alive they could attest to the fact that they were in Rome and they obtained a baby from Maria Rubio. He sucked in a breath and let it out slowly, controlling his desire to swallow. Had Stuart sent a man to kill them?
“I believe I’m your junior,” Dominic said.
“When were you born?”
“Seventeen twenty-six.”
“Ah. I am older. Considerably so.” He said that with a smug certainty. The Pretender slurped his wine. “What did they call you?”
“Dominic.”
“Is that the name on the certificate of your birth?”
“Yes. Actually it’s Dominica, but my parents made it more acceptable for the child of English nobility.” He kept his feet flat on the floor, the better to get to his feet quickly if he needed to. Did this man know about the other certificate, the one that detailed the marriage between their father and Dominic’s mother?
“This is a damned mess.” The Pretender glanced at the man in the corner as he put his empty glass down.
The man did not move. “I am here to observe proceedings, no more,” he said. “I am not a servant.”
Pouring a glass might mean the man could not get at his weapon in a hurry. Dominic knew as surely as he could see them that he had at least two pistols thrust into his belt, and a few other useful items. He’d sat where he could see both men, but he wasn’t close enough to either of them to take them by surprise. The man met his gaze and then glanced away. “I’m here for your safety,” he said.
Dominic wasn’t sure which of them he meant. When he’d first entered the room, he’d assumed the man a bodyguard to the Pretender, but he’d said he was here for the King. The Pretender’s father.
The Old Pretend
er never set foot in Britain, not since the ’fifteen had driven him out of the country for good. The chances that he was here were negligible. However, it was reasonable that he’d set someone with his son’s entourage.
Grumbling, the Young Pretender poured himself a brimming glass of wine, but he didn’t offer Dominic another. Dominic kept hold of his glass. Another potential weapon, though he was beginning to think he did not need one. He would not, however, rely on the faint chance provided by the watchful man in the corner.
The Old Pretender would know about his bigamous behavior. Would know that the first marriage had not been invalidated. Would know he had children, although he didn’t know where they were.
“What if I refuse to accept that I am a child of your father?” Dominic said.
“Plotters still plot and people still insist on their rights. They will rally around anyone. I’m trying to assess if you are worth having as an ally. You must want our father to ascend to his rightful place on the throne.”
Dominic moved around and took another sip of wine. Just as bad as the last sip. “If you say so,” he said cautiously.
“You have a look of him, you know that? Of course your eyes are dark, like our father’s, but you have the face and nose of a Stuart. I’m surprised nobody noticed before. You must meet him. If you have not met him already.”
“I can’t help the way I look.” He’d have done anything at that moment to be a grey-eyed blond. He’d tied his own hair back tonight, since he hadn’t any society events planned. Yes, although nobody had marked the resemblance before, nobody had any reason to. Once his secret became known, people would notice. If his secret came out. “You enjoy living like this?” He waved, his gesture encompassing the room.
“Oh, believe me, this is not normal. My lodgings are a great deal better than this.” Interesting, that faint accent, the touch of his tongue on the consonants, more like his mother’s language than the one his father was born into. Although the Old Pretender had been born abroad and had spent most of his life away from the country of his birth.
“You enjoy the intrigue? Do you have any time to yourself? How about a wife?”
Reckless in Pink Page 15
