Confessions of a Little Black Gown (3 page)

Even as she began to imagine him in a black coat and atop a dark stallion, Pippin nudged her out of her reverie.

“…and then tomorrow,” Felicity was saying, “we must see how capable Mr. Ryder is at riding and bowling, and of course, dancing.”

“You want me to dance with him?” Tally sputtered, not so much as a question, but more of a protest.

Felicity paused and stared at her as if Tally had just begged off in favor of deportation to Botany Bay. “But of course you are to dance with him. Tally—whatever is wrong with you? Can’t you see
how important this is to me? I’m only asking you to make an impression upon Mr. Ryder so he will trust you and listen to you, so that when you make a few well-meaning and very necessary recommendations as to how he could dress better, and appear more, shall we say, gentlemanly, he’ll listen.”

Tally’s list of protests as to the madness of her sister’s plan grew so long, they bottled up in her throat, leaving her speechless.

Felicity, of course, failed to notice. “Dinner is in half an hour. Please don’t be late.” She left as quickly as she’d arrived, and even before the door was closed, they heard her issuing orders to whatever hapless servant happened to be in the hall.

“Wellington’s troops had an easier time of it,” Tally managed to choke out. “She’s impossible!”

Pippin chuckled, pushing off the trunk. “She is determined, I will say that.”

“You are only smiling because she isn’t tossing you toward that wretched Mr. Ryder.” Tally pressed her lips together and set to work getting the trunk lid propped back open.

“You’ve met him?”

Tally nodded. “When I went down to ask Thatcher about my trunk, he was there.”

Pippin paused, her hand resting atop the black silk. “And?”

Wrinkling her nose, she replied, “He’s a veritable country parson. Not unlike Vicar Vials in our play.”

Pippin laughed. “Say no more. No wonder Felicity is in such a state.” She plucked the black silk out revealing the real treasure inside, the one they’d hidden from the duchess so hastily—a black velvet
gown, bejeweled and bedazzling with silver embroidery and pearls sewn into intricate designs.

The two of them stood gaping at the elegant confection, Felicity and Mr. Ryder utterly forgotten.

“That is the most beautiful gown I have ever seen,” Tally finally whispered, as if speaking of it aloud would somehow make it disappear.

Pippin glanced at her. “Truly?”

Tally nodded. “I don’t think even Jamilla has ever had anything close to this.”

“Heavens, Tally,” Pippin said, eyeing the silk on the bed and the velvet in the trunk. “I daresay they would fit you!”

Tally glanced down at the black velvet and in a moment saw herself enrobed in it, jewels in her hair and silver slippers on her feet.

In her imagination, she was no longer under Felicity’s social guidance, but a lady on her own, free of Society’s constraints.

And there was a man. Well, if one had a dress like this, there had better well be a man. And he wore a half mask—making him just as dashing and handsome as she was elegant. He would have no need to ask her to dance, for he’d claim her hand against all takers, and he’d sweep her into a waltz. Then, just as suddenly, the room would empty, until it was only the two of them, with no need for music and only scant candles for light…He’d lower his lips to hers and…

“Tally! Are you listening to me?” Pippin said, nudging her from behind, having set a perfume pot and a small case to one side.

Gads! So lost in her woolgathering, she hadn’t even
noticed that her cousin had gone back to rummaging through the trunk. So much for Pippin’s arguments against invading someone else’s privacy, for she was now digging about like a rag picker.

“None of this makes sense,” her cousin was muttering.

“How so?” Tally said, laying the velvet down next to the bombazine.

“A widow with a dress like that? And there’s a maid’s gown in here as well.” Pippin held it up. “I would love to see Felicity’s face if you wore that down to dinner. It would make quite an impression on this Mr. Ryder of hers.”

Quite an impression…
the words struck Tally like a well-shot arrow. But her gaze wasn’t on the worn and ragged woolen gown, something one might see on a serving maid in the local public room, but on the black velvet.

Oh, yes, she’d make quite an impression wearing that. A gown so scandalous, the sight of it would be enough to send Felicity up into the boughs for a week, mayhap an entire fortnight.

But it might also change her sister’s mind about using her to gain Mr. Ryder’s confidence. A lady in such a gown would most likely give a bumbling country vicar apoplexy.

But not him…
a voice whispered.
Not him.

The highwayman. The spy. The dark, dangerous man who haunted her.

For one long, wicked moment, she wondered if this gown might be enough to rouse the man she’d spied behind Mr. Ryder’s façade.

Well, it would certainly prove or disprove her theory about him.

“Good heavens,” Pippin was saying, pulling out leather breeches and a small, masculine-cut coat, both in the darkest black. “Look at this riding habit—why, it could belong to a highwayman.”

“I doubt the lady is a highwayman,” Tally said, her eyes still fixed on the velvet.

“Care to wager?” she asked, holding up a pair of pistols.

“Lawks!” Tally said as Pippin thrust them into her hands.

“I do believe this trunk
could
belong to you,” Pippin joked. “Why this has all the makings of mystery. I do hope we can discover who owns this trunk, for I have to imagine she’ll leave Jamilla in the shade.”

Tally was still staring down at the pistols in her hands. They were finely wrought and well-used, for the grips were worn and smooth. What sort of lady had such an odd assortment of clothes and belongings? “Perhaps she is an actress and these are her costumes, her props,” she suggested.

“I doubt it,” Pippin said with firm conviction.

“Why?”

“How many actresses find these necessary?” Pippin said, holding up a set of lock picks exactly like Tally’s.

Mayfair, London
Four nights earlier

T
he mists that swirled around Larken as he walked down the street were hauntingly familiar. As were the cobbles beneath his boots.

He’d walked here before. Of that he was certain.

Waving his hand before him, he hoped in some way to be able to clear the fog so as to see a path before him, but it was as futile as the sense of despair tugging his chest into a knot of dread.

Everything was about to go terribly wrong.

Somewhere ahead of him a woman was saying, “My lord, you must help me. I cannot stay in Paris another night.”

“I cannot. I will not help you,” came a reply just as adamant and angry as the lady’s request—nay, order—had been.

Larken’s gaze flew up. He knew that voice. It was his father’s. But it couldn’t be. His father was…

Meanwhile, the pair continued to argue.

“If you will not help me, I will ruin you.
Your family.
I have more than enough evidence to destroy everything you hold dear,” she threatened. “You have no choice but to help me.”

“Your evidence is as false as your heart,” his father shot back. “And you’ll not ruin me or harm my family.
Ever
.”

Larken tried to shake off the urgency behind these words.

This has nothing to do with me
, he argued to himself. He needed to escape this place. This night.

This has everything to do with you
, the swirling fog seemed to mock back.

“You have little time, my lord. Have you forgotten the child?” the woman brazened. “I believe that alone leaves you no choice in the matter.”

There are always choices.

Larken’s father had taught him so. Always choices. Good and bad.

And this was going so very bad.

“If you don’t take me, take both of us, it will be your ruin,” she prodded, pushing his father to make a terrible choice.

“’T’would be treason, and I’ll have none of it. Madame, our partnership ends tonight,” the elder Larken told her, with a finality that his son knew all too well. There would be no changing his father’s mind now.

Larken stumbled forward, but the mist grew thicker as he neared something…He inhaled and
smelled the stench of sewage and garbage. The river?

No. Not the Seine.

“Father, watch out,” he tried to shout, but his words ended up a tangled mess at the end of his tongue. He reached inside his jacket for his pistol, yet it wasn’t there.

“Ends? You think you can end this?” A dark, deadly laugh rippled through the night. “The only one who is going to find an ending tonight is you, my lord. You have crossed paths with the Order for the last time.”

The
crack
of a pistol ripped through Larken as if the bullet had struck him. Somewhere there was a splash.

An icy sting surrounded him, as if it were him falling into the Seine’s murky depths. And then he was, the water filling his mouth, his nostrils, his ears. He was drowning, sinking into the river, darkness closing in on all sides around him. He was dying, unless he could…

Larken’s hands flailed over his chest to find where he’d been hit, then reached for the water’s surface, his lungs bursting for want of air.

And then there was a shaft of light. It blinded him and yet carried him out of the water, out of the darkness.

He shielded his eyes, trying to discern where he was and what was happening.

Or more important, who was coming for him now.

“My lord? Are you awake?” The man held the candle higher, up next to his face so he was clearly discernable. “’Tis me, Royston. I hate to disturb you,
but now that you are
awake
—” he paused and let his words sink in.

Awake
. Larken took a deep breath. Yes, he was awake. Not in Paris, not in France. But here. In London. And this was Royston, his butler.

And he was no longer eleven years old and wandering the streets of Paris trying to stop…well, stop Fate.

Larken heaved a sigh. He’d been sleeping. Dreaming. And now he was awake. He didn’t know what was worse. The nightmares or awakening and finding his life was no different than it had been when he’d sought out his bed.

“Yes, Royston,” he said, stirring further away from the haunting dream. “What is it?”

“My lord, I wouldn’t have disturbed you, but I fear you have guests downstairs.”

“Send them away,” Larken told him, rolling back over and dragging the coverlet with him, though with one eye he stole a glance at the mantel clock. Five in the morning? Christ, he’d only fallen into bed an hour before.

“I fear I cannot send them away,” Royston said. “’Tis His Grace, the Duke of Setchfield, and that gentleman who calls on occasion. The one who never leaves his name.”

Larken groaned. He didn’t need to know who that was. Pymm. The Foreign Office’s spymaster. Pymm never left his name. Left any trace of his presence behind.

And he never called directly on one of his…
associates…
unless…

Unless something had gone terribly wrong.

“Christ!” Larken muttered as he tossed back his drenched sheets and shook the last vestiges of sleep from his weary body. There was nothing to do but get up—and to do his best to ignore the way the floor beneath his feet felt—if only for a second—like the rough cobblestones of Paris.

“You look like hell,” the Duke of Setchfield called out in greeting as Larken entered the room.

“I was asleep, Temple,” he replied, using the duke’s nickname. “Remember sleeping? The thing intelligent people do at night.”

“You don’t look like you were sleeping,” Temple persisted. “Nightmares?”

“None of your concern,” Larken replied irritably, walking past the brandy tray. He’d been sent home from the Continent six months ago because he’d become too much of a risk, his superior had claimed.
Dangerous and unpredictable
, one officer had written in a coded missive to Pymm.

One Larken had not only intercepted, but also decoded easily.

Too much of a risk.
Larken wanted to laugh. Pymm and his ilk had made him this way. Restless and suspicious of everyone. And coming home hadn’t improved his mood—only emphasized how he no longer belonged amongst the elegant Society into which he’d inherited his standing.

He glanced down at the bottles beside him and knew he should offer his guests a libation, but then again it was five in the morning, and they’d roused him from his bed. He wasn’t feeling overly hospitable.

That didn’t mean that Royston wasn’t above such manners, for he arrived in the room with a tray of cold ham and bread. Coffee steamed in a pot, filling the room with its sharp aroma.

Larken let Royston set it down and depart before he said, “Now I don’t mean to be rude, but what the devil brings the two of you to my home at such an hour? I’m retired, am I not?”

Pymm’s eyes narrowed and he took in his surroundings with a brief flick of a glance before he spoke, quietly and firmly, “Dashwell escaped two nights ago. From Marshalsea Prison.”

Escaped? From Marshalsea? Impossible.

Ignoring the way the two of them were studying him, Larken took in this information with a mix of emotions that he dared not show. Dashwell, free? He knew he shouldn’t be, but part of him was elated that the American privateer, the man who’d mocked the English navy and bedeviled her merchant ships without remorse, had escaped.

Because before their two countries went to war, Dashwell had been one of the Foreign Office’s best assets. A captain daring enough to slip past any blockade, plucking English agents off the Continental shores and bringing them back to safety. Those dangerous adventures and more than a few nights drinking and gambling had made Larken and Dash boon companions.

But that was before the Americans had thrown their lot against the English. Before friends turned, in the blink of an eye, into enemies.

And then last winter, just after he’d been brought home, Pymm had prodded Larken into helping the
Foreign Office capture Dashwell—the foolish bastard having snuck into London to spy out the best prizes before they left the merchant pool.

The entire situation hadn’t rested easily with him, but what could he do? Pymm had been right to search him out and order his arrest. Dashwell knew too much about the Foreign Office’s operations. Knew too many of the agents. He was a risk to them all.

And so Larken had agreed to help capture his friend.

He’d done worse in war, he told himself. Certainly he had, he’d told himself in the months past. Worse than betray a friend.

“Escaped? Two nights ago, you say?” he asked, trying to sound casual even as he felt a bit of a thrill. He should have known the wily devil would somehow slip free. “So why are you coming to me now?”

“It was by chance that we even discovered the fact,” Temple told him. “Overheard it at White’s earlier. Seems the Admiralty is in quite a stir but doesn’t want to reveal that they’ve lost England’s prized prisoner.” Temple didn’t stand on ceremony, but went over to the tray and caught up a thick piece of bread, topping it with a slice of ham and took a hearty bite, as if he hadn’t eaten in days. “Been a busy night, calling in favors,” he said almost apologetically.

None of this made sense to Larken. “How the hell could Dashwell escape? And from Marshalsea, for Christ sakes.”

“He had help,” Pymm said, reaching inside his coat and pulling out a bundle of papers. He handed
the packet over to the baron and let him read what they had gathered so far.

Meanwhile, Temple had another serving of ham and poured himself a cup of coffee, tossing several lumps of sugar into the strong brew. Pymm followed suit, but without the sugar.

“Demmed good organization and perfectly executed,” Larken muttered as he read the hastily written report.
Surrounded as they exited the gates…Overcome in the mist…Carriage found in Mayfair later that afternoon…

“Good God,” Larken muttered as he finished up the last page. “Whoever this is, they outwitted the Admiralty at their own game. How the devil did they find out that Dashwell was being moved?”

“We have no idea,” Temple said. “Only a handful of people knew.” He nodded at Pymm. “We didn’t even know.”

Larken set the papers aside and raked his fingers through his shaggy hair. “What the hell was the Admiralty thinking, moving him?”

Pymm answered this. “They were going to hang him at Newgate at first light.”

This brought Larken wide awake. Hang him? Well, he’d always known that would be Dash’s end, but he’d never liked the notion.

For the truth of the matter was that Dashwell was his friend. American or not, no matter what the politicians said.

Demmit, he hated how honor and duty had put them in opposing camps. How many times had Dashwell sailed into French coves and smuggler’s
haunts to slip Larken in and out of France? Certainly his friend’s previous heroics hadn’t stopped him from turning Dash in, from seeing him locked up.

But someone else hadn’t been so cold hearted. They’d set him free…which left another wrinkle in all this. If Dashwell had escaped, then he’d need to be recaptured. Larken shivered and moved closer to the fireplace, pacing in front of the grate, the carpet worn from the many nights he’d spent before it, just like this, striding back and forth trying to make sense of some problem or another.

No, he didn’t like the implication of where this all was going.

“There’s more to this,” Temple said. “Which isn’t in the report.”

Larken stopped mid-step and glanced over his shoulder at the duke.
Ah, so now they are going to get to the heart of this.

Temple motioned for him to sit, which Larken did, more than willing to listen if it meant that they would then leave him be.

“While the report describes this as the work of a large, well-armed gang of dangerous thugs, that isn’t the truth,” the duke said. “I had drinks just a few hours ago with a fellow by the name of Dobbins who claimed it was no gang, but two women who freed Dashwell, with the help of an ox of a man who
is
mentioned in the official report, as well as an unknown fellow they’d substituted for the regular one who drives the gallows wagon.

“The leader was dressed in a red gown, or as the most eloquent Mr. Dobbins said, ‘a gel with the finest set of tits I’ve e’er seen. And hair! Blond, it was. Shone
like a lamp, it did.’” Temple paused. “A regular poet, our Mr. Dobbins. But apparently the lady in question was young and fair. And adept at handling a pistol, because she drew before the lieutenant in charge was able to twitch.” Temple paused again, letting his words settle down, before he added, “The hag was most likely no old woman, for apparently she moved just as smoothly, and was also well-armed.” Again he took a breath and glanced at the coals in the hearth. “I suspect the driver was a woman as well, but I have no proof…just…“