Beware of Virtuous Women (29 page)

"Ah, good, you're up and about," Rian said as he entered the breakfast room, clearly dressed for a day on the town. He lifted a silver lid and plucked out a slice of ham he then began to gnaw on. "So, what do I see first, Jack? The Tower, you suppose? I hear there are lions in the Tower. And tigers."

"Don't bother, Rian," Jack said wearily, indicating that the young man should take up a seat across the table from him. "The morning post has arrived, and I took the liberty of opening your sister's letter to Eleanor. Morgan's babies were born the day after Eleanor and I left to come to London. Not three days ago."

"Fanny. Blast the girl."

"Cassandra, actually. Someone needs to sit that girl down with a primer. Her spelling is atrocious. So, Rian, how long have you been in London on Jacko's orders? How long have you been following me?"

Rian didn't seem the least upset that he'd been found out, which made him not only young but either supremely stupid or exceedingly confident. Or both. "Not all that long. First I went to—who says I was following you?"

"Not my good friend Cluny, that's for certain," Jack said, not without a trace of humor. "Now, do you want to tell me why you 've been following me? And why you decided to show up here, of course."

"Well," Rian said, speaking around a second mouthful of ham, "the second part's easy. The inn was terrible, and the food worse. I figured you and Elly were living higher than that, so why didn't I take advantage of that fact. I'd show up, bearing good news, and with no questions asked. Morgan wanted the babies to be a surprise for Eleanor when she came home. Didn't count on Callie feeling she couldn't wait, though. I should have, shouldn't I?"

"Apparently, yes," Jack said, leaning his chin on his hand, rather fascinated by the young Rian Becket. "Now the first question. Why have you been following me?"

"I'd still say it was Jacko's idea that I should protect you, watch your back. But you wouldn't swallow that crammer again, would you?"

"No, I don't think so," Jack admitted, grinning.

Rian popped the last of the ham slice into his mouth and wiped his fingers on a serviette he lifted from the table. "Very well, the truth it is then, although you're not going to like it much. I'm here to make sure that— if you somehow managed to get yourself dead— there'd be someone close by to spirit Elly off safe back to Becket Hall."

"The confidence you Beckets have in me is nearly unmanning. I'll have to thank Jacko when next I see him," Jack said, watching as Rian picked up the plate in front of him and returned to the large buffet table, to begin lifting silver tops and choosing his next course.

"I told you, Jacko's especially protective of Elly, and always has been. Like an old woman, that's what we say. And I really was all hot to come up to London in any case."

"To get some of the moisture out from behind your ears," Jack said, recalling what the boy had said when he arrived.

"Exactly. I wasn't insulted, seeing as how I know I'm still fairly wet, and a chance was a chance. Who's the Irishman, by the way? You might want to tell him to suck in that belly of his when he's trying to hide between doorways. It was always sticking out like a wrapped thumb. I didn't have to follow you, Jack. It was easier just to follow him."

"No wonder he never saw anyone following me," Jack mused aloud, appreciating the humor of the situation—not that he'd mention the joke to Cluny. "I suppose now that you're here you'll want to be of some use?"

Rian returned to his seat, dishes in both hands, a piece of toast clenched between his teeth. "Any yamm?"

"Jam? Certainly." Jack passed him the small crystal container.

"Strawberry. Famous! What was that you asked? Oh, do I want to be of some use? I'd be delighted. How?"

Jack knew his life wouldn't be worth a bent penny if anything happened to Rian, but the boy still could be helpful. "Your sister's shoes are a disaster with those odd-size heels on them."

"Really? We have our own bootmaker in Becket Village you know. Ollie. A good man." Rian shoved back his chair and lifted his right leg high into the air. "Made these boots, Ollie did, and they look as fine to me as any I've seen since I've come up to London. What did you say he did wrong with Elly's shoes?"

"As I said, he put different-size heels on each shoe, with a higher one on her... affected leg. I've noticed that she's much more comfortable barefoot, which leads me to believe she shouldn't have a higher heel on one shoe, even if it makes her gait smoother. I don't like that she hurts."

"Well, hell's bells, no, neither do I. So you want me to take Elly where? Bond Street, isn't it? Today?"

"Today, yes. See if someone can manage to put new heels on at least one or two pair of her shoes, then order several pair to be delivered here. I can always have someone send them along to Becket Hall if we're no longer in residence. A dozen pair, Rian. Slippers, half boots, whatever she needs and a few she doesn't, with the bill coming to me."

"She'll give me trouble there, Jack, you paying and all."

"Ah, but you're the brother, you're the
man
here. I have all confidence in you." Jack got to his feet. "I'll be going out now, probably not returning before you leave. Don't go until at least noon, Rian, you understand? That's important. At least noon."

"No, I don't understand," Rian admitted honestly. "Elly's always up and about early. Don't know why she isn't this morning. Not like Elly to be a slugabed."

Jack knew why, but he wasn't about to tell Rian how his sister had held on to him last night as he'd carried her upstairs. How he'd held her as she cried tears too long held inside over a secret she'd hidden from everyone for too many years. How he'd loved her gently, then more fiercely, deep into the morning hours.

"London hours are different from country hours," was all he said.

"I suppose so," Rian answered, obviously not that concerned. "But we don't ever have anything sent directly to Becket Hall, Jack, you know. Elly will give the shopkeeper the direction for the first place the shoes will go. After that, they'll go elsewhere—the places always change—and then finally to Becket Hall."

"Amazing," Jack muttered upon hearing of yet another layer of careful Becket secrecy, then added, "Watch her, Rian. I don't expect any trouble, but don't let her out of your sight. Take my coach and two footmen with you. All right?"

Rian's mouth was full yet again, so that he just waved a hand in Jack's general direction and continued eating as if one of his legs had gone hollow and he needed to fill it back up immediately.

Jack smiled to himself as he left the breakfast room, remembering when he'd awakened every morning, starving, and only losing that smile when the bitter memory of his uncle's recounting of the cost of eggs and kippers each time he dared to refill his plate took its place.

Thinking of his dead uncle led immediately to thoughts of his missing cousin, and the secret he still kept from Eleanor.

Did it matter anymore? His reasons for meeting the Beckets seemed like ancient history, only his aunt's pleading to please find her son, or what had happened to him, holding any importance now.

He was one of them now. A Becket. Or as close to a Becket as any outsider could be. Ethan had been accepted, that was obvious, or he wouldn't have been along on their last smuggling run. If Ethan could be accepted, so could he. Not just tolerated, not just used for his expertise. Accepted. One of them.

He wouldn't betray the Beckets because he wouldn't betray Eleanor. The Becket secrets, whatever they all were, were safe as houses with him. It was that simple, and that complicated, because he could no longer rationalize the
why
of his continued association with the Beckets and their, frankly, illegal activities. Treasonous activities, some would say.

The rights and wrongs of what he was doing, who he was becoming, the depth and reasoning behind his loyalties, accompanied Jack all the way to the three shallow steps leading up to the front door of the Earl of Chelfham's town house.

He hesitated for a moment, pulled out his watch and checked the time. Ten o'clock. More than enough time to say what he had to say, and leave Eleanor safe as she and Rian shopped in Bond Street. After all, why risk abducting her in full sight of the world, when a traveling coach on an isolated roadway made for much the easier target?

Now all Jack had to do was swallow down the bile that threatened to rise in his throat as he thought of the coming interview with Rawley Maddox, the murdering Earl of Chelfham.

Eleanor's father. Sweet Jesus...

"Mister Jack Eastwood to see his lordship," he announced forcefully when the door was opened at his knock and he was ushered inside the black-and-white tiled foyer of the house that, he silently noted, was not furnished half so well as his own. A silly thing, even petty, but he would take his pleasure where he found it, so that he would be able to resist taking his pleasure in breaking Rawley Maddox's fat neck.

"His lordship is still at breakfast, sir," the bewigged butler informed him archly, keeping his gloved hands at his sides rather than holding them out to receive Jack's hat and gloves.

"I'm aware of that, my good man," Jack lied smoothly as he turned his hat upside down and carefully dropped a gold coin into it. He neatly covered the hat with his gloves, then held out both to the butler. "His lordship expressly asked that I join him. I'm sure he informed you of our appointment."

"Why, yes, sir," the butler said, accepting the hat, the gloves and most definitely the coin. "Mr. Eastwood, of course. My apologies, sir. If you would be so kind as to follow me?"

Jack was feeling anything but kind, but he certainly did follow, remembering the night Eleanor had declared, "You can't buy loyalty, no matter how high the price." He'd have to remember to tell her how inexpensive
disloyalty
was in London.

The Earl of Chelfham was at the trough—the breakfast table—when Jack was announced, a large white linen serviette tucked into his collar, three full plates spread out in front of him. "Eastwood! I knew you'd show up. Splendid! Come, come, sit down. Eat!"

"I've already broken my fast, thank you," Jack said, pulling out a chair a small distance down the table. "I'm still slightly confused. Are we chums now, Chelfham?"

"Ha! As if a man like you had any choice. I don't mind a bit of bluster. I've done some myself from time to time, truth to tell. But I knew you'd come around. So, when does the cripple leave for your country house? Sussex, correct?"

It was bad enough that the earl called Eleanor a cripple, but seemed even worse now that Jack knew all that he knew. "Her name is Eleanor, Chelfham."

"And her place is
gone.
That was part of our deal," the earl said, his expression going from jovial to solid marble in the space of a second. He pulled the serviette from his collar and looked levelly at Jack. "So?"

Jack attempted to look subservient, as the earl seemed to expect him to, but it wasn't easy. "My wife departs tomorrow at noon. I would have sent her sooner, but she feels slightly ill and the journey was necessarily delayed. I know what you demanded, and I'm complying with that demand. Now it's time you show me some measure of good faith in return."

Chelfham popped a last bit of kipper into his mouth and spoke around it. "A show of good faith, is it? Very well. I suppose a hearty handshake wouldn't be enough for either of us. But, first, don't you have something to show me? I've already heard about it, you understand, but I really do need to see it for myself."

Jack pulled a slim journal from his jacket pocket and tossed it onto the table. He'd spent long hours yesterday making up a false set of names, delivery dates, monies collected from his freetrading operations. All the earl would need to know once he
eliminated
Jack as his new partner. "As you can see, I anticipated just such a request. I'm not stupid. We share now, Chelfham, or this association is over before it's really begun."

Chelfham's smile all but screamed
Oh, yet you
are
most certainly stupid, Eastwood, and very nearly dead.
But when his mouth moved, it was to say, "Very well, you drive a hard bargain, Eastwood, but fair is fair. It's only fitting that I should show you some proof that I know what I'm about. Shall we adjourn to my study?"

For the next half hour, Jack allowed himself to be content with the few pages of several different journals Chelfham agreed he could see. Mostly, he saw long columns of figures alongside coded explanations. The earl was kind enough to decipher those for him, so that Jack ascertained that massive amounts of tea, brandy and silk made up most of the "imports," while the "exports" were not the raw materials Europe always craved, but gold coin.

Jack knew he should not try to content himself with degrees of guilt, but helping the people of Romney Marsh by selling their wool for a profit somehow seemed less reprehensible than sending the King's actual coin across the Channel to eventually help fatten Bonaparte's war chest.

Not only that, but Chelfham had shown Jack pages from only about half of the thick stack of journals he kept locked in his desk, each journal covering a different smaller "gang" that made up the whole. Each gang had it's own name. The Green Men Gang. The Yellow Men Gang. But, above them all, the Red Men Gang. Red, the color of hellfire. There was nothing the least bit ragtag about these operations; Wellington's troops may not have been so well organized.

"And you're in charge of all of this? I'm impressed, truly. Your profits must be staggering," Jack said at last, when his mind became too full of information to possibly hope to remember any more details.

Chelfham had been lounging on a green leather couch below the study window overlooking the back gardens and mews. There was even a door on that wall, leading out to those small gardens—a fact Jack had been happy to commit to memory. "Yes, but they are not
my
profits, sad to say. I do believe your small enterprise yields you nearly as much as riding herd on this entire vast operation does me."

"But I take all the risks," Jack pointed out as Chelf-ham gathered up the journals and locked them into the drawer once more. "It would seem, pardon me, that you're nothing more than a glorified bookkeeper."