How to Plan a Wedding for a Royal Spy (14 page)

She had an idea, though it seemed a strange choice for a social outing. But when the curricle turned onto Coventry Street, with its gold and silversmiths and jewelry shops, her suspicions were all but confirmed.

“Surely you've guessed by now?” he asked with a smile.

“You're taking me to St. Margaret's.”

“Indeed. I'd like to see what you do there.”

“Why?” She'd assumed his earlier questions about her work had been nothing more than the polite interest of an old friend.

“I'm not entirely a frippery fellow,” he said in a wounded voice that didn't fool her a bit. “I can be serious now and again.”

“You're actually the least frivolous person I know. Or, almost,” she amended, thinking of Michael. “But why in heaven's name do you want to spend the afternoon poking around a charity school? Won't you be bored?”

Will kept his attention on his horses while he navigated the curricle around two carts whose drivers were engaged in a shouting match. He didn't speak again until he'd negotiated their safe passage, and Evie couldn't shake the feeling he was composing his answer.

“Nothing you could do would ever bore me,” he said. “This is important to you, so it's important to me.”

She fiddled with the delicate brass chain on her reticule, not sure what to say. The idea that she was important to him raised more questions than it answered.

“Besides,” he added, “Alec is interested in supporting the place, so I thought it made sense for me to take a look. He's a bit of a soft touch, if you want to know the truth, and I wouldn't want him taken advantage of.”

She twisted in her seat to glare at him, her flustered worries dissolving under a flare of anger. “William Endicott, are you suggesting that
I
would do such a thing?”

“Dammit, Evie,” he said. “That's not what I meant and you know it.”

“I don't know how I could take it any other way.”

“It's not you I'm concerned about,” he growled.

She let out a heavy sigh. “Michael. I really don't understand why you don't like him. He's a thoroughly decent, honorable person who's invested a great deal of his own money into St. Margaret's and the Hibernian Benevolent Association.”

“If you can't deduce why I don't like the man, I'm certainly not going to tell you,” Will said in a dry voice. “But we'll save that discussion for another time. For now, be assured that I'm most sincere when I say that whatever interests you, interests me.”

Part of Evie
did
wish to explore why Will had conceived such a dislike for Michael. She could almost believe he was jealous, as silly as that seemed. But since Michael had quite clearly developed a corresponding dislike of Will, she couldn't think of any other explanation that made sense. However, that was a topic fraught with danger and she decided to agree with Will and let it drop.

“Very well,” she said, “what would you like to know?”

“How did you come to be involved with St. Margaret's?” He slowed the curricle to turn into Princes Street.

“Through Michael, of course. As you know, I met him at a lecture at the Royal Society, and we soon realized we shared a number of common interests.”

A grunt from Will told her how little he liked that answer.

“In any event,” she hastily carried on, “he introduced me to St. Margaret's and the Hibernian Benevolent Association. The work is worthy and the need great, I assure you. I was happy to become involved.”

“I can imagine,” he said coolly. “How do your parents feel about your spending so much time in St. Giles?”

“Mamma hates it, of course,” she said gloomily. “Papa is better, although he worries it's dangerous for me to go into the Holy Land as much as I do.”

Will threw her a startled glance. “Christ, please don't tell me you actually go into the rookeries.”

She shook her head. “I'm not a complete idiot, Will. But I certainly would if I thought I needed to.”

“I would strongly advise against it under any circumstances,” he said with a thunderous scowl. “It's more dangerous than you can imagine.”

She didn't tell him that she
could
imagine, since she'd had to venture into the stews on two occasions to deliver food and supplies to ailing families of parishioners. But she'd only done so in the daytime, escorted by Michael and one of the local men who used their services. It hadn't felt especially dangerous, though the conditions in the tenements had left her feeling tremendously sad and rather hopeless.

Still, she had no intention of sharing that information with Will. Only Eden knew the extent of what she did at St. Margaret's, and her sister would never betray her.

“I repeat—I am not an idiot.”

“I never thought you were,” he said, sounding frustrated. “But you do have an exceedingly kind heart and a tendency, on occasion, to be a tad bull-headed.”

She rounded her eyes in mock indignation. “Are you sure you're not talking about Edie? I'm the absolute pattern card of caution.”

He snorted. “You used to be. I'm not so sure about that now.”

She rather liked that assessment. She no longer wanted him to think she was the meek little miss of long ago, too cautious to venture outside her small circle of friends. Working at St. Margaret's—and with Michael—had helped her overcome the most bothersome elements of her lamentably shy nature.

“Tell me more about your work,” he prompted.

As he guided his horses through the busy streets, moving closer to the teeming warrens of St. Giles, she described the work she did at St. Margaret's, which was mostly with the charitable association attached to the parish rather than with the church itself. But both were intertwined, since the church also ran a charity school for the local children and most of the adults who came for help were first and foremost parishioners.

“Not that being a faithful attendant to services is a prerequisite,” she said with a tiny sigh. “If that were the case, we certainly wouldn't be able to help nearly as many people as we do.”

“Ah, problems among the faithful?” he asked wryly.

“Life is very hard for them, and most don't have much time for church. That and other things tend to keep them out of the pews.”

“Like drinking?”

She grimaced. “Yes. Beer, mostly, but gin can still be a problem. Not that it's only the Irish immigrants who are plagued with the vice. You mustn't think that.”

Since she'd started working at St. Margaret's, Evie had come to better realize just how much bigotry still existed against the Irish, both for their nationality and their religion. That bigotry was something she had to fight on a regular basis as she tried to extract support from potential benefactors. More often than not she failed, and since the death of Lord Cardwell, the charity's most generous patron, she and Michael had been finding it ever more difficult to raise the necessary funds.

Will gave a sympathetic nod. “The Irish are no more predisposed to that particular vice than Englishmen. It's ridiculous to think otherwise.”

“Your view isn't shared by many in the
ton,
I'm afraid.”

“I'm guessing you've had some difficulty raising money for your work?”

“The charity school doesn't really have a problem,” she said. “It's generally supported by some of the more prosperous shopkeepers and merchants of Irish descent in the city. They provide for most of the upkeep of the church, too.”

He nodded. “I take it you're not that involved with the school or the church itself.”

“Michael and I are both stewards of the school, but we're primarily involved with the activities of the Hibernian Benevolent Association.”

“With a name like that,” Will said dryly, “I can understand why you have trouble raising money from the
ton.
”

“How true,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “But I can't get Michael to change it. He's devoted to the cause of justice for the Irish and says it's important we not be afraid to speak out on the issue.”

Will slowed the carriage almost to a crawl as he avoided yet another pair of overloaded carts jostling for the right of way at a crowded corner. Once they'd maneuvered past the knot of bystanders thoroughly enjoying the verbal brawl between the carriers, he resumed the conversation.

“And what about you?” he asked. “What do you think about the plight of the Irish?”

She frowned, again wondering why he was so interested. “I'm deeply concerned about their living conditions, and I want to do everything I can to alleviate their distress. But if you're asking if I have a specific political opinion on either the Union or Catholic emancipation, I don't. I know those issues are exceedingly important, but I'm more concerned with feeding starving children, putting a roof over their heads, and helping their parents find work.”

He glanced down at her, a faint smile tipping up the corners of his mouth. Evie couldn't help feeling like she'd just passed some sort of test.

“That's what you do?” he asked, the smile warming his voice. “Feed the starving and succor the poor? Well, it's certainly what I would expect of you.”

“You make me sound like some sort of dreary medieval saint,” she said, trying to cover up the fact that his praise—and the expression on his face—made her insides flutter with pleasure. “I do, however, try my best to help when I can.”

He nodded, once more switching his attention to the bustling street. “And I understand you do that by helping people find respectable work, some of them within the households of the
ton.
”

“Yes. Did Michael tell you that?”

“No, Alec did. He and Beaumont have been talking about St. Margaret's quite a lot, as you may have noticed.”

She realized she was clenching her reticule in an anxious grip. “I do hope Captain Gilbride is serious in his interest. Believe me when I tell you that we could use the help. It's become discouragingly difficult to raise new funds.”

“He is, as am I. But I'm surprised to hear
you
sounding so discouraged.”

“Unfortunately, I don't have adorable English orphans to use as fodder to appeal to our donors. I have adults—mostly illiterate and sometimes ill-spoken or inebriated. Or both,” she said, deciding to be candid. “Add in the fact that they are both Irish and Catholic, and you can imagine the usual response to my requests.”

“Yes, but it's not like you to sound so downtrodden about it, Evie.”

She jerked slightly in her seat. Had she? She thought she was simply being honest. “I suppose you don't know me that well anymore, do you?” she said, trying—and failing—for a light tone.

He transferred the reins to one hand and reached over to cover her clenched fists. “Then I'm very pleased to acquaint myself with the new Evie. And happy to help you in any way I can.”

Pleasure mingled with confusion as she peered up at him. She used to be able to understand what he was thinking just from the fleeting expressions that crossed his face. But now . . . well, she supposed they were
both
new to each other. Given the passage of time and all that had occurred between them, it made sense that he would find her greatly changed from their more carefree, childhood days.

But before she could say anything, he released her hands and turned the curricle into the paved yard behind St. Margaret's Church. Well into the tangle of streets that radiated out from Seven Dials, Will had unerringly guided them to their destination without once asking for direction from her. She frowned, again thinking it odd that he took such an interest in the place, and in her affairs.

He pulled up in front of the low, warehouse-like building attached to the small church. “Shall we go in? I'm most eager to see what you've been working on.”

As he handed her down, she tried to shake off the sense that Will was up to something. She might not be able to read him as well as she used to, but a little voice inside insisted she hadn't entirely lost the knack.

Evie fussed with the skirts of her carriage gown, avoiding his gaze. That added to Will's certainty that she was hiding something. Something to do with her work at St. Margaret's.

But what?

Every instinct told him she knew nothing about conspiracies or assassination plots, especially after her response to his probe about the Irish question. It was just like Evie to focus on the practicalities of the situation rather than the politics. Even as a young girl, she'd always confronted the problem that lay directly before her, whether it was a tenant's sick child or a stray dog caught in a poacher's trap. Her twin, on the other hand, took on the larger battles. Eden had a force of character and personality that would have ensured her a career as a politician if she'd been a man. Evie, however, much preferred to address the smaller problems of daily life, caring for those around her with a quiet, endearing concern. She was born to be a wife and mother, bringing order and comfort to all within her orbit.

She was passionate about her work but wasn't a radical. And she sure as hell wasn't an assassin. Nor would she ever involve herself in a cause that hurt another human being. But that didn't mean that Beaumont—or someone else—wouldn't try to take advantage of her kind nature. Evie might think herself an experienced, even cynical woman of the world, but at her core she was still the affectionate, trusting girl he'd always known.

“If you'll wait here,” she said with a hesitant smile that made Will want to kiss her, “I'll fetch one of the boys to look after the horses.”

As she crossed the yard, he took a few moments to enjoy the enticing sway of her backside before she disappeared into the building attached to the church. In the years since he'd last seen her, he'd almost forgotten how splendidly built she was. Some might call her plump, but he thought her perfectly proportioned, with a slender neck, a long, graceful back ending in a sweet, round arse, and generous curves calling out for attention from a man's hands. In fact, he was beginning to find it disturbing how much he wanted to be the man—the only man—who would have the privilege of sampling her physical charms.

He let out an impatient snort, mentally shaking off the image of a naked Evie in his bed. That was unlikely to happen—would
never
happen, if he had any brains—and he was here for a set purpose. That purpose was certainly not to be distracted by lurid thoughts of Evie. He'd already been forced to lie to her and had no business making things worse by salivating over her or by acting like a jealous fool with Beaumont. Yes, he'd tried to convince himself it was simply a part he played, but he was grimly aware of just how thin that excuse was starting to sound. While he could certainly get Evie to trust him as a friend and only as a friend, every time he was with her he wanted more. Much more.

Murmuring absently to his horses as he held them in check, he ran a practiced eye over the church building and the surrounding area.

St. Margaret's was tucked away on a small street off Monmouth, only a few blocks from Seven Dials. It was on the edge of the rookery—too close for Will's comfort given how much time Evie spent here. Still, this street seemed safe enough with its narrow houses and two-story shops. The structures were shabby, to be sure, but seemed respectable enough, with a coffeehouse, a few old clothing stores, and a boarding house or two lining the short street. A few men loitered in front of the coffee shop, apparently in a genial argument as they smoked their pipes. A woman dressed in plain but neat garb hurried by, carrying a basket of produce.

As for St. Margaret's, it was a modest but tidy red-bricked affair with a slate roof, capable of holding no more than a hundred congregants, he judged. Larger, and surprisingly so, was the building attached to the back end of the church, the one into which Evie had disappeared. It consisted of two stories composed of lime-washed brick, with several window bays. A blue, four-paneled door in the center was topped by a patterned fanlight. Will guessed it had once been a warehouse, now converted to other uses, including as a church hall.

The air of respectability surrounding the place reassured him too. The yard was swept clean, the windows were free of soot, and two large pots with red geraniums flanked the door, lending an unexpected splash of color. The flowers were almost certainly Evie's idea because she'd always loved flowers, particularly geraniums. It would be just like her to impart so domestic and cheerful a note, even here in a back alley of St. Giles.

The blue door opened and Evie strode out. An errant breeze swept through the yard, plastering her skirts to her body, and displaying both the outline of her legs and the sweetly rounded notch at the top of her thighs. Will forced his gaze up, trying to ignore the bolt of sensation to his groin.

Christ.
He would likely be crippled with lust before completing this mission.

“Is something wrong,” she asked as she came up to him. “You look . . . pained.”

“No, but I suspect I might soon have reason to be,” he said, eyeing two urchins trailing in her wake, devilment written all over their grubby little faces. “Please tell me those two aren't going to look after my cattle.”

Actually, the beautifully matched pair and the curricle were Alec's, and Alec was notoriously touchy about his animals. He would no doubt look with extreme disfavor on little boys handling them.

“Aw, go on, guv,” one of the urchins piped up. The engaging, freckle-faced boy had a shock of red hair sticking out from under his cap. “Me and Benny looks after Mr. Beaumont's horses all the time.”

Will widened his eyes at Evie, who was struggling not to laugh. It took a few moments before she could compose herself enough to answer. “Will, I'd like you to meet Peter McGuire and his brother Benjamin. Boys, this is Captain William Endicott. You'll do just as he says and take good care of his animals, will you not?”

Benjamin, who looked younger than Peter, split his mouth open in a good-natured grin that revealed he was missing his two front teeth. With the size of his smile, Will could almost see down to the boy's tonsils.

“Aye, Miss Evie, we will,” Peter said. “You can count on us, guv—true blue, and that's a fact.”

Will narrowed his gaze at Evie.

“Honestly, Will,” she said, “you can trust them. They do look after Michael's horses on a regular basis. There's a stable over in the next street where Peter and Benjamin are training to be grooms. They will look after your horses splendidly.”

Will heard the slight note of anxiety in her voice and saw the pleading look in her eyes behind the polished glint of her spectacles. Glancing down, his gaze collided with two earnest pairs of eyes, also pleading with him.

“We'll take good care, sir,” Benjamin said in a squeaky voice as he gazed longingly at the beautiful grays. “Promise.”

Will capitulated. Alec would kill him if anything happened to the pair, but he found himself unable to disappoint the boys—or Evie.

“Very well.” He extracted a shilling from his vest pocket and flipped it to Peter, who seemed to be in charge. “Walk them up and down, and come fetch me if you have any trouble. There's another shilling in it for you if you take good care of them.”

The boys babbled their thanks, tripping all over themselves with excitement. Fortunately, they calmed down when they approached the horses. Will lingered a few moments to see how they got on, but they handled the pair with a maturity beyond their years. Then again, the children of the rookeries grew up quickly, forced into work, begging, or thievery at an early age.

“Thank you,” Evie murmured as he took her arm.

“They seem like smart boys. Do they attend the school?”

“When their parents let them. They have four other mouths to feed, and Mr. McGuire makes very little money as a day laborer. He sometimes sets the boys to begging with their baby sister. If we can train the boys to be grooms, I'm confident we can find places for them in a few years. It would make a real difference for the entire family.”

He ushered her through the door into a low-ceilinged, narrow hallway that appeared to run the length of the building. “Is that one of the things you do—train children for useful employment? I thought St. Margaret's only ran a charity school?”

“Many parents in the parish see little use for book learning, so we try to combine school with training for a useful profession.” She glanced over her shoulder as she led him along the passageway. “We help the parents find employment too. As I mentioned, I'm a steward for the school, but my primary focus is on assisting adults who come to us for help. I work very closely with them.”

Will nodded politely, hiding his surprise. He'd thought her involved in the typical sort of charity work for women of her class—such as helping to raise funds for indigent children or perhaps occasionally teaching a class to little girls. Her involvement at St. Margaret's was much more significant than he expected.

She showed him into a large room with benches and a few tables, a globe on a stand at the head of the room. “This is where we hold classes for the children in the mornings and on Sunday afternoon. We occasionally hold classes in here for the adults, although we have workrooms upstairs, too. Those are mostly for teaching the women fine needlework and other useful skills. Father Kevin O'Kelley, St. Margaret's pastor, lectures on Sunday afternoon and also conducts classes for the men.” She grimaced. “Although attendance is often a little spotty.”

“I imagine it can be difficult to persuade them to give up what little free time they have to come here and sit through a lecture.”

She closed the door and gestured for him to follow her down the hall. “Yes, but Michael has devised a way to encourage participation. He holds informal discussion groups afterward, and we provide food and drink.” She threw him a wry smile over her shoulder. “It's amazing what a cup of beer and a few meat pies will do. Sometimes the discussion can get quite lively, especially when Michael decides to give a political lecture.”

Will maintained his expression of polite interest. “Indeed? How often do those informal discussions take place?”

“Usually once a week on Friday night, although there's a great deal of activity on Sunday, too. The men often prefer to leave the churchgoing to the womenfolk and the children, and congregate over here to smoke their pipes and
'ave a chew,
as they call it. Some days the air is blue with smoke when they finish.”

He couldn't help smiling at her bang-on imitation of an Irish accent.

At the end of the passage, a set of steps led up to the second floor and another passage branched off to the right, leading to another wing.

Evie pointed up the stairs. “As I mentioned, the other workrooms are upstairs, along with bedrooms for Father O'Kelley and his housekeeper and her son. We can go up if you like, but the rooms are similar to the classroom I just showed you. Although there are no classes in session now, you're welcome to return on Sunday when things are busier.”

“I'm impressed, Evie,” he said. “I expected a small charity school, but these facilities are quite expansive.”

Leaning against the window frame next to the staircase, she untied her bonnet and took it off with a little sigh of relief. Even in the dull light of an overcast London day, her hair, pulled into a thick coil at the base of her neck, glowed like warm honey.

“We're very fortunate that Michael was able to purchase this building a few years ago and donate it to St. Margaret's.”

He ignored the tightening in his gut at the warmth that infused her voice whenever she talked about Beaumont. He even hated the fact that she constantly used his given name, since it spoke to an intimacy that Will was beginning to actively resent.

“That was good of him,” he replied in a neutral voice. “What used to stand on these premises?”

Her lush mouth kicked up into a little smile. “A gin house and distillery.”

He couldn't help a laugh. “Ah, I thought I caught a faint trace of something.”

“No doubt it's the lingering scent of the juniper and alcohol. They're very difficult to scrub out, although we've certainly tried.”

She pushed off from the window frame. “Let's finish the tour, shall we? The offices and kitchen are along this passage.”

He followed her, his gaze fastening once more on her bottom, gently outlined beneath her soft blue skirts. Will seemed to be developing an obsession with her arse, one that might prove difficult to break.

The truth was that he was fast growing obsessed with
Evie,
which took some getting used to. They'd been close as children, and he'd always loved her. But the feelings she aroused in him now had nothing to do with childhood friendships and everything to do with the fact that he was a man and she was a desirable woman.

A woman he admired and cherished, he reminded himself, and one he'd sworn to protect.
That
was what mattered, not his surprisingly strong physical attraction to her. His first and only job was to get to the bottom of the conspiracy that threatened not only the government, but Evie, too.

“The kitchen is through there.” She pointed to a door at the bottom of a shallow flight of stairs. “That's Mrs. Rafferty's domain. She's the housekeeper, although she also does some cooking for Father O'Kelley as well as for the meetings we hold for the men. And here,” she said with a proud little flourish, “are the offices of the Hibernian Benevolent Association.”

Opening a door opposite the steps to the kitchen, she led him into a sort of anteroom that clearly served the function of a small drawing room. The walls were whitewashed and plain, hung with a few innocuous paintings of landscapes and religious scenes in simple wooden frames. A battered armchair sat in front of a small coal grate, and a green velvet chaise that looked like it had come from a lady's dressing chamber stood against the opposite wall, a low table in front of it. A sturdy-looking teapot surrounded by mismatched cups and saucers was the table's only adornment. The decidedly shabby room had a sort of coziness that was enhanced by pots of flowers. Geraniums, again, clustered on the sill of the window that looked onto an alley.