Shirley Kerr (10 page)

“Did you now. And what is his grace like?”

She shook her head. “I’ve held up my end of our bargain. Now it’s your turn.”

He sighed and scooted his chair back from the table. “Very well. Let me refill my cup first.” He moved to the sideboard and fussed with milk and sugar and the teapot until Charlotte thought she was going to have to hit him. Just as he was sitting down again, the butler entered, bearing a card on a silver platter.

“Yes, Farnham?”

“Beg pardon, sir, miss, you have a visitor.”

Charlotte groaned at the delay.

Steven glanced at the card, then smiled at her. “You’re in luck, poppet. Please send in Gauthier, Farnham.”

“Very good, sir.”

Moments later Gauthier shuffled in and was seated across the table from Charlotte, both of them on opposite sides of Steven, who sat at the head of the table, so they could converse in low tones. Charlotte brought the tea things to the table so the three of them could keep talking without wasting time for trips to the sideboard.

Gauthier nodded a greeting at her, ran his hands through his greasy dark hair, blew his enormous Roman nose on a pink silk handkerchief, and emptied half his cup in one swallow. “The good news is, our friends from Darconia are still in London, so we still have a chance of success.”

Charlotte topped off his cup. “What’s the bad news?”

“
Merci
. I am afraid that last night, they, how you say, gave me the fall.”

“Slip. They gave you the slip.” Steven sat back in his chair and shook his head. “You’re losing your touch, old man.”

“Insolent whelp. If you had accompanied me as we
planned, they would not have had such an easy time.” Gauthier leaned toward Steven and gave a suggestive wag of his eyebrows. “How is the fair Mademoiselle Emily?”

Steven coughed and stared resolutely at Gauthier, who was only three years his senior, and refused to meet Charlotte’s angry gaze.

She tapped her finger on the table. “You abandoned your post, a task assigned by Lord Q, in favor of engaging some woman’s favors?”

Steven finally faced her. “No, of course not. I was, um, taking a page from your book, in fact. Emily is a maid at the palace, and I was…interviewing her.”

“Interviewing.”

He didn’t blink. “Yes.”

She’d just bet Emily was pretty, and poor enough that her dress didn’t quite conceal all her charms. Charlotte drew breath to dispute his claim.

“
S’il vous plaît, mes amis
, do not fight. My head, it hurts when you argue.” He tapped Steven’s hand. “
Ma petite
, she is as skilled with her tongue as she is with a knife. You know you cannot win.”

“We are not fighting, Gauthier. Perish the thought.” Charlotte turned her dazzling smile from the Frenchman to her brother, losing the smile in the process. “So, what useful information did Mademoiselle Emily have to share?”

Steven cleared his throat. “At the fete last week, the night we think the snuffbox was stolen, she saw the two emissaries from Darconia standing by the fireplace early in the evening, where the box was on display on the mantel.”

“Aha!” Gauthier slapped his hand on the table in triumph. “I was right!”

Steven took a deep breath. “She also saw Madame Melisande near the mantel before the snuffbox disappeared. It looked like she was checking her appearance in the mirror, but the snuffbox was directly below said mirror.”

Charlotte resisted slapping the table. She did, however, raise her chin a tad higher in the air in her triumph.

“So it would seem you may have been correct from the beginning, poppet.”

She couldn’t raise her chin any higher and still see her brother or Gauthier. “If you finally agree that Madame Melisande stole the box, does it matter if the Darconians gave Gauthier the slip last night? Why not let them just go home to Darconia?” Let them leave, and not muddy things up any further for her investigation, since she knew the Darconians had been robbed of the box, probably by Sir Nigel. Surely they were at an impasse as to where to find the box now.

“Because we don’t know for certain that Madame Melisande is the one who took it. If we find out she didn’t, but in the meantime we’ve let the Darconians slip out of our grasp, we’re going to have a lot of explaining to do to Lord Q.”

As much as she wanted to prove that she was just as capable as Steven at completing the assignment, it was more important to get back the snuffbox. “Ah, but
I
am certain that Madame Melisande took it, though she no longer has it. The Darconians stole it from her hotel room last night.”

Steven set down his teacup with precise movements. “And how did you come by this information?”

“I saw them. I was too far away to get the box myself.”

Gauthier had gone still, staring at her intently.

Steven leaned closer to her and lowered his voice even further. “Where, exactly, were you?”

This was the part that could be interpreted incorrectly if she wasn’t careful. “At the rout last night, I went up on the roof with my spyglass.” No need to add any additional details. “Right after I saw the Darconians steal the box, they were held at gunpoint by another man who stole the box from them. I believe it was Sir Nigel.”

Steven’s eyes narrowed.

Gauthier cocked his head to one side, considering her statement.

Undaunted, she pushed ahead. “I have seen Nigel and Melisande together on more than one occasion. I think he may have stolen the box back for her. We should investigate him.”

Steven shook his head. “If we investigated every man who spent time with Melisande, we would have to scrutinize half the men in London.”

“What kind of gun was it?” Gauthier leaned his elbows on the table.

“I couldn’t tell. Too far away, too dark.”

“In the dark, so far away, how can you be sure it was Sir Nigel?” At least Steven wasn’t asking why she had gone up to the roof.

“I can’t, but the height and build were correct, and based on the interaction that I have witnessed between Melisande and Nigel, it would be logical for him to get
back something that was stolen from her. We should investigate him.”

Steven gave a slow nod. “Perhaps we—meaning Gauthier and I—should. You, however, promised to play the part of a London miss. Where was your fiancé when you were spying on Melisande’s room?”

“You agree with me, don’t you?” She reached an imploring hand toward Gauthier. She hated putting him in the middle like this, but she had no intention of answering Steven’s question.

“Perhaps,
ma petite
.”

Steven sighed. “We’ll look into him, after we finish up with the Darconians.”

“You’re going to wait? No telling what he’ll do with it in the meantime. He may not give it back to Melisande, especially if he discovers just how valuable it is. I’ve seen them arguing.”

“We’ll look into it, poppet, I promise.” Steven had the gall to actually pat her hand. He turned back to Gauthier, who was busy dunking a buttered scone in his tea. “After the Darconians gave you the slip, you turned in early?”

Charlotte sat back, trying to calm her simmering resentment. How many times would she have to be right for them to give credence to her theories?

Well, fine. She’d just investigate Sir Nigel herself. Which had been her plan anyway. Let Steven and Gauthier chase after the Darconians—it would free her up to follow the real leads in the case. She buttered a scone and liberally smeared it with blackberry preserves. Delicious.

“Of course not, silly boy.” Gauthier ate a bite of his scone. “I went to Lost Wages, my favorite gaming hell,
and won fifty pounds.” A look of bliss crossed his face as he swallowed the last of the scone. He kissed his fingertips. “You have no idea how bad London hotel food is,
mes amis
.”

“I’ll pass your compliments to the chef,” Charlotte said, thinking how accustomed to good food she had become in the short time since coming to London. Thank heavens she no longer had to eat her own cooking, or—God forbid—Steven’s.

“You didn’t come here to tell me you lost the people you were supposed to be following, or that you cheated at cards last night.” Steven refilled his cup.

“
Moi
, cheat? Never. Unless the house, she is twisted,
n’est-ce pas
?”

Steven frowned for a moment. “You mean crooked.”

“
Oui
. This house last night, she is very crooked.” He glanced into his empty teacup. Charlotte filled it again. “But at this house, one can buy as well as play.”

“Buy what?” She’d never heard of anyone shopping at a gaming hell before. Wagering possessions, certainly, but not selling or buying them. She thought most men hated to shop.

“Anything one’s heart desires,
ma petite
. One need only give a description of the object one wants, prove one has the necessary funds to purchase it, and voilà, within a night or two it is there. Sometimes several of them to choose from, just like in a shop. They have an understanding for those who cannot purchase new, but who wish to keep up appearances.”

Steven leaned forward, elbows on the table. “And did you express an interest in obtaining a snuffbox?”

Gauthier nodded. “Alas, my old one was lost when I traveled here.” He grinned.

“It can’t be so simple as to just buy back the snuffbox from a fence, could it?” Charlotte asked. If Sir Nigel was at low water, as Moncreiffe had suggested, perhaps there was nothing more nefarious to his plans than selling stolen property for a profit.

Lord Q had described the snuffbox as being inset with a fortune in small gemstones, quite valuable in itself, without considering it had been a gift to the Prince Regent from a female dignitary from the tiny principality of Darconia.

“If Madame Melisande knows of this gaming hell, that would explain why she took the snuffbox in the first place, a shiny bauble like that.” Steven beat Gauthier to the last scone on the plate in the middle of the table. “It would have easily fit in her reticule, and even after cutting a fence in on the deal, would still fetch her enough to keep up appearances for another month or two.”

With the scones gone, Charlotte put the lid back on the blackberry preserves. “Does Bow Street know about the extracurricular activities at this gaming hell?”

“I’m certain they do, poppet. And if they don’t, there’s no need for us to enlighten them until after Gauthier buys a slightly used snuffbox. And that should be…?”

“Tonight.”

“So soon? Marvelous.” He cut the scone in half and gave part to Gauthier. “You see, poppet? You didn’t miss out on anything with this case after all. Very simple and straightforward. Boring, even.”

“Yes, I can see that.” She snatched the just-buttered piece of scone from Steven and popped it in her mouth.

Business concluded, Gauthier began discussing his favorite dealer at the gaming hell, a buxom brunette. “I think she is the cousin of Melisande. Do you remember her, Vivienne, with the
magnifique
…” He gestured with his hands, indicating a woman with voluptuous curves.

Before he could become more specific in describing the woman’s attributes, Steven held up a hand to silence him. “What are your plans for today, poppet?”

“I haven’t decided about tonight yet. Aunt may prefer to stay in. But I’m going for a drive with Moncreiffe this afternoon.”

“This afternoon?” Steven glanced at the clock, which showed not quite eleven. “You’d better hurry upstairs, then, if you’re going to get dressed and ready in time.”

She was about to argue that she did not require a ridiculous amount of time to prepare for a simple carriage ride, but realized she could put the time to good use. “Excellent idea. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.”

Both men stood, and Steven tugged her close to kiss her forehead as she passed. “See, I knew you’d come to like all this female folderol,” he whispered.

She patted his hand, then dashed upstairs.

Once inside her bedchamber, she shut the door and leaned against it.

She hated lying to Steven, actively or by omission, but he’d left her no choice. If he had his way, the rest of her life would play out like the conversation over breakfast just
now—concerned with her social calendar and the whereabouts of the man in her life, and little else.

Just like her mother. A woman who’d lived her life for one party after another, an existence as ephemeral as that of a butterfly, and having about as much impact.

The fate of the nation might not rest on whether she succeeded in retrieving the snuffbox—the prince could survive the loss, and Darconia was hardly likely to declare war on England over it—but
her
future was at stake.

Success in this assignment meant a more secure future for herself, working for Lord Q. A woman of independent means, not reliant on a husband or brother. Someone who made a difference. Like her father.

A glance at the clock told her she had just enough time to complete her errand before Moncreiffe arrived, but only if she didn’t dawdle.

Now, which of her costumes was best suited for visiting a gaming hell?

“L
ooking for wagers regarding your lovely little bride-to-be?”

Alistair didn’t look up from the betting book he was perusing at White’s. “Good morning, Father. Bit early for you to be up and out, isn’t it?”

“Could say the same for you.” Penrith pulled out a chair at the table and sat down beside Alistair. “Stars were bright and twinkly last night, just the way you like them. Thought they’d keep you up until dawn. Or were you concentrating your efforts on other celestial bodies, eh?” He gave Alistair a playful elbow to the ribs.

Alistair closed the book, his finger marking his spot, and gave his attention to his father. The morning light streaming through the club’s big bow windows showed every line of dissipation on the older man’s face, and revealed there was far more gray than brown in his hair
these days. Years of heavy drinking and late nights kept his blue eyes perpetually bloodshot.

“How I spend my nights is of no concern to you. What brings you here so early?”

Penrith grunted. “Couldn’t take any more. Seems the old man likes that filly you picked, despite her father being a mere baron.” He hailed a passing waiter and ordered wine. “Kept going on and on about the tête-à-tête he had with her last night.”

The hair on the back of Alistair’s neck stood on end. Miss Parnell and his grandfather had a chat last night at the rout, and she’d said nothing to him about it?

“What’s that you’re looking at, eh? Thinking of placing a wager of your own?”

Alistair quickly debated how much to say. “Not at all. I simply saw someone recently in a coach I admired, but I know he didn’t own it, so I wanted to see if perhaps he’d won it in a wager.”

“Haven’t seen a coach change hands on a wager for a bit. Find anything interesting?”

“Not so far, and I’ve already checked the books at Boodle’s this morning.”

“Hmm. Who was in the coach? Perhaps I’d know the answer to your quest.”

With his father’s lifestyle and the company he kept, it was quite likely Penrith was more familiar with disreputable folks than he was. “Sir Nigel Broadmoor.”

His father shook his head. “If that loose fish now has a fancy carriage, ten to one he stole it, not won it on a wager. Most likely it belongs to his crony Tumblety, and Nigel simply borrowed it.”

Alistair frowned. “I’ve heard rumors about a Baron Tumblety. Something about him engaging in trade.”

Penrith lowered his voice. “You keep a close eye on your baubles and trinkets if you ever find yourself near either one of them, you hear me, son? Or you’ll likely find your watch fob up for sale at Lost Wages.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Penrith shook his head in dismay before emptying his wineglass. “How did I manage to raise such a green lad?” He waved his hand, and a waiter came scurrying to take his order for a refill. Once they were alone, Penrith rested his hand on Alistair’s shoulder and assumed the same attitude he had fifteen years before, when he’d painfully explained in crude details how babies were made, and how to not make them with the upstairs maids. Alistair braced himself.

“You see, son, not everyone is blessed with a head for managing their affairs the way we were.”

Since Alistair knew perfectly well that the marquess’s secretary handled his finances, and that Grandfather still kept him on a quarterly allowance, much as he did Alistair, he was inclined to suspect the value of the wisdom about to be dispensed.

“When fellows like Nigel and Tumblety find themselves in a bind, they don’t have the wherewithal to bluff their way through it, like the rest of Society does.”

Penrith so rarely played the role of father, Alistair felt obliged to go along. Besides, he’d almost forgotten what it was like to converse with one relative without hearing a harangue against the other. He rested his chin on his fist, his elbow on the table. “What do they do?”

“They pinch.” He accepted the fresh glass of wine from the waiter, and waited until he was gone before continuing. “Nothing major, nothing to attract attention, mind you. People think they’ve merely misplaced their fan or fob or what have you. They think the maid or footman moved it and lost it, or that the butler miscounted the silver. They don’t realize they’ve actually been robbed.”

Alistair sat forward. “And what do Sir Nigel or Tumblety do with this booty? An extra fan or gewgaw isn’t going to help them much when creditors and merchants pound on the door.”

“They do if there’s a few dozen people out there, pinching these baubles for them, so they in turn can sell them. How do you think I replaced my watch fob last year? The old man deprived me of my allowance, and I couldn’t let dear Vanessa—or was it Giselle?—think I was at low water. I had to get another, quickly, and paying a jeweler’s price for a new one was out of the question.”

Since his father had lost the watch fob on a roll of the dice, Alistair was disinclined to feel sympathy in the first place. “So you bought a stolen fob from Tumblety?”

“Much as it shames me to admit, yes. And I don’t ever want to see anything of yours show up at Lost Wages, so keep a sharp eye out. You never know who might be trying to filch.” He took a deep swallow of wine.

“I always remember your words of wisdom, Father.” Alistair finished off the last of his now tepid tea.

He believed it quite likely that Madame Melisande had intended to sell the royal snuffbox to Tumblety or Sir Nigel. But that didn’t explain why the two men who’d been following Miss Parnell had stolen the box, or why
Nigel had stolen it back from them. How did Nigel know those other men were involved?

Ten to one, there was a great deal still that Miss Parnell had not confessed.

He tossed down his napkin, pushed the betting book to the center of the table, and rose.

“Where are you off to?”

He briefly considered saying he was off to look at stolen watch fobs, then thought better of it. “To find out who built Tumblety’s coach, of course.”

Charlotte ducked down an alley to avoid a large crowd of sailors coming her way on the street. Off in the distance, church bells tolled the hour. Noon. She had less than an hour to complete her task at the tavern before she would need to head home again to get ready for Moncreiffe’s arrival.

A man detached himself from where he’d been propping up a doorway and sauntered toward her. “What ’ave we here? Fancy a bit of fun, ducks?”

“Some other time, per’aps.” She picked up her pace.

“But this
is
a good time, love.” He slung his arm around her shoulders, matching her stride for stride. “I just got paid,” he cajoled in a gin-soaked voice. He jingled a few coins in his pocket.

She wrinkled her nose. Apparently the only time he washed his filthy dungarees or bathed was when he got caught in the rain. “No,” she said more forcefully, and tried to shrug off his arm. Given the way she was dressed, she couldn’t blame him for his assumption about her occupation. She kept walking.

“Come on, ducks, name your price, and we’ll ’ave a bit of fun.”

She stopped so abruptly he took an extra step before he faced her. She lifted the bottom edge of her skirt, just far enough to reveal the knife sheath strapped to her calf. “Tell you what, ducks, let’s ’ave a race. I’ll wager I can get my knife out faster than you can get out your pintle.”

His face paled beneath the layers of grime, one hand subconsciously reaching down to cover his groin. “If you wasn’t interested, you just had to say so.”

She gave an exasperated huff, pulled her cloak closer around her, and once more strode toward the gaming hell.

She almost wished he’d given her an excuse to use her knife. Steven had taught her well. She was prepared for this life, for this work, whatever she encountered.

And she would prove it by getting back the snuffbox.

She reached the tavern without further incident and settled at a corner table, her back to the wall, where she had an excellent view of both entrances. One led to the street, the other to the kitchen and on toward what she supposed was the gaming area.

A red-haired woman who might be a serving wench sauntered up to Charlotte’s table, one hand on her broad hip. “Girls off’n the street ain’t allowed to ply their trade in ’ere, missy, so get yer arse out the door.”

Charlotte pulled her worn cloak a bit closer around her shoulders, hiding some of the décolletage revealed by the low cut of her dark red gown. “That ain’t the sort o’ work I’m looking for.” She checked that the table was dry and relatively clean, pulled a pack of cards from her reticule,
and fanned them out across the table. She lifted one card and neatly flipped over the entire deck, then swept them up and shuffled them. “I ’ave a different specialty.”

The serving wench harrumphed. “You’ll be wanting to speak with Mr. Jennison, then. It’s a bit early for ’im yet, but he should be along shortly.”

“Mr. Jennison. Right. What’s he like, then? Is he the owner of this place?”

“You’d certainly think so, the way he carries on sometimes. No, some rich toff owns this place. Jennison just runs the gaming rooms.”

“That’s good to know. I’m Susie, by the way.”

“Ginny.” After a glance toward the kitchen door, Ginny sat in the chair opposite.

Charlotte shuffled the cards as they talked. “So, any tips on what to say to Mr. Jennison when I meet him, or what not to say?”

“Well, don’t expect ’im to look you in the eye. Wear something cut a little lower, and you probably won’t even ’ave to show your cards.”

Charlotte tugged her dress up a bit. “What about the owner? Is he a good man, pay everyone on time?”

Ginny shook her head. “Don’t know nothing ’bout ’im, except Jennison gives out the wages every week, regular as clockwork.”

The dim lighting and her heavily applied rouge made it difficult to discern if Ginny really didn’t know about the owner or was simply reluctant to share such knowledge.

“I’ve heard there are some fringe benefits to working here,” Charlotte ventured, fanning her cards out again.

“Aye?”

“Like maybe I can buy a real lady’s fan, for a lot less than what the lady paid for it.”

Ginny’s eyes narrowed. “Mayhap. You’d ’ave to ask Jennison about such things. Me, I just serve the drinks.” She gave a furtive glance over her shoulder, then flashed a grin. “Sometimes there are bonuses.” She patted the elegant hair comb holding up her red tresses. It was silver, set with what Charlotte had thought to be glass rather than gemstones, and looked similar to one Aunt Hermione had lost when they’d first arrived in London.

She patted her own hair comb, an unadorned bit of brass. “Fair enough.”

Three men seated near the fireplace shouted for service just then and banged their empty tankards on the table.

“Speaking o’ drinks…” Ginny stood up.

“Thanks ever so much for your help, Ginny.”

“No trouble at all.” She went to her customers.

Charlotte scooped her cards up, slipped them back in her reticule, and glanced at the watch tucked inside. Oh, blast. Jennison would have to wait until later. She barely had time to get home and change before Moncreiffe was due to arrive. Steven couldn’t know she had left the house.

She sensed someone watching her, and scanned the room. Her breath caught.

There, just inside the taproom door, stood Moncreiffe.

Their eyes locked, and she forgot all about the room full of people around them.

He looked away first, taking in the mixed clientele of young bucks, sailors, and vagrants filling the room,
before returning his assessing gaze to her, his look of disbelief growing sharper.

Before it could become full-blown anger, Charlotte hurried toward him, and kept right on going, out the door, through the milling crowd and toward the carts rumbling past in the street.

“What in blazes are you doing here, in a place like this?” He caught her elbow just before she reached the street and spun her back toward him.

She refused to be intimidated. “Following a lead. What are
you
doing here?”

He muttered something that sounded like a Latin curse, tucked her arm in his, and they began walking. “Likewise.”

Two sailors walking past pronounced their approval of her bosom.

Moncreiffe wrapped his arm around her shoulder, tugging her close to his side. “You shouldn’t be in a neighborhood like this, especially dressed like that.”

When she glanced up, he was looking straight ahead, but she was certain he had just been looking down her bosom. She clutched her cloak closed at her throat, hiding a smile. “This is the
only
way for me to be dressed when I’m in a neighborhood like this.” Since his arm was around her shoulders, and she was dressed like a working girl, she wrapped her arm around his waist, making it absolutely clear she had already found a “customer.”

He glanced down at her, and after a slight hesitation, caressed her shoulder with his fingers. Once more, he was willing to play along.

She gave his trim waist a squeeze in appreciation. Too
bad she hadn’t thought to slip her arm under his coat instead of over it. “So tell me about the lead you were following.”

Instead of answering her, he raised his arm and hailed a coach. An elegant, new coach, with the crest of the Duke of Keswick adorning the door.

The driver tipped his hat, and a tiger jumped down from the back to open the door and let down the step.

Moncreiffe spoke a few quiet words to the driver and then handed her inside. To her disappointment, he sat on the opposite bench, his back to the driver, rather than beside her.

She settled against the midnight blue velvet squabs, admiring the coach’s pristine interior, the mellow scent of beeswax and new fabric tickling her senses. Even the glass on the lanterns sparkled.

They rolled along over the cobblestones with a gentle sway rather than teeth-jarring jolts. The only thing that would make it better would be to have Moncreiffe at her side. Though from this perspective, she could gaze upon him without being rude or forward, and trace with her eyes his classically handsome features which would make a sculptor cry. A painter would be better able to capture the intense blue of his eyes, the hint of red in his sensual lips, the tousled honey-brown hair that curled over his collar.