Mad for Love (13 page)

What delicate Mignon Blois and her Parisian sensibilities might think of East London, he could not say. Nor did she. But she did loosen her grip on the seat rail enough to take a level-eyed look around her. She was so sweet and serious and earnest and determined, that he almost hated to corrupt her by taking her into the maelstrom that was the used clothing market of Petticoat Lane.

But he took her there anyway.

The street itself was no more than the narrowest of lanes, made even narrower by the crowding of awnings hung thick with used clothing of all sorts and descriptions, the smell of which was as pungent as the colors were faded. So narrow and crowded was the street that Rory made no attempt to risk the bright polish of his phaeton, and abandoned his equipage to his tiger’s— Archie in raffish disguise—dubious care.

As there was nothing he could really do to prepare her, he simply took her hand and waded into the sea of humanity like a seasoned mariner.

With Mignon holding fast and bobbing along in his wake, Rory made straight for Ruby’s, a tiny little hole-in-the-wall of a shop in the most tumble-down of buildings. But Ruby’s prices were the best, and her discretion was assured—once he passed her a few extra bob.

Within two minutes of passing under the creaky portal, he had a suitable ensemble collected. “Here.” He thrust the messy pile of messier clothing—a rough, patched, quilted petticoat, over a gray, moth eaten shawl, and a dingy once-white cap—at a wide-eyed Mignon Blois. “These, I think will do well for ye.”

“These?” She turned over the well-worn cap. “But I will look an utter dowd.”

He gave her his most conspiratorial and charming—and damned if he didn’t know it—smile. “If ye’ll insist upon frequenting criminal circles, my dear, ye can’t be choosy.”
 

He gave himself the pleasure of turning her by the delicate architecture of her shoulders, and pointing her in the direction of a vaguely curtained dressing area. “Go ahead and take off yer clothes.”

“Mr. Andrews.” A hot blush of madder rose painted her soft cheeks. “I know I said I was prepared to go to any lengths, but I fear you have mistaken me—”

Such a charming combination of innocence and insistence. “Ye’re quite safe from me, Miss Blois. It is only, as they say in the theatre, dress rehearsal time. Ye’ll go in there with yer pile”—he pointed at the curtained area—“whilst I shall repair over there”—he tipped his chin toward a nearby tower of clothing—“to await yer transformation.” Like a gorgeously-colored butterfly forced back into a cocoon.

“Well, if it is a necessary part of the plan.” She eyed the curtain with clear skepticism.

“It is indeed. Ruby the Rag Woman will guard yer modesty, as will this heap of clothes that will make it impossible for me to see ye. I promise, Miss Blois, not to peek, if ye will promise the same.”

Her attempt not to smile brought dimples into the warm roses on her cheeks, and he wondered anew how on earth he was going to keep himself from disappointing her.
 

By being clever, and observant, just as he always was—that was the key.

At the moment, the key to his survival was not looking as the delicate and delectable Miss Blois un-pinned her hat. Not noticing the soft swirl of a curl at her nape, before she disappeared behind the rag-thin linen curtain to begin slowly disrobing.

To contradict the strange lethargy that seemed to settle into his bones at the thought of her soft, warm skin, or the memory of her in the thin lawn of her nightdress, Rory paced as far away as the small confines of the shop would allow. Which was approximately three feet and back.

Accordingly, the rest of his time was spent with his eyes closed, listening to the soft shushing sound of fabric sliding and settling behind the curtain. “How are ye progressing, Miss Blois? I realize it might be difficult without a maid.”

“I am not so fine that I cannot dress myself, Mr. Andrews. Though I am not sure I want to put this mouse-dropping of a cap on my head before I have washed it in lye soap.”

“Ruby gives all the clothing a good dunking before she puts it out, don’t ye Ruby?” he appealed to the shop’s owner. “Ye’ll not get any lice in this shop. I wouldn’t have brought ye here otherwise. Now come, let me see ye,” he demanded.

Mignon pushed back the curtain to reveal her looking not unlike a fairy masquerading as a human—she was too delicate and pretty to really make an entirely convincing charwoman. But still, the clothes did make her look every inch the dowd.

“Oh, that’s nice.” He admired the worn edges of her apron. “Aye, that’s just awful.” He could not resist the urge to rumple her dark silky hair, before he tucked it into the mouse dropping of a hat—such an apt turn of phrase. “Ye’re perfect.”

“Perfectly awful,” she groused over her blush.

“I’d say ye’re awfully perfect. The cap hides yer beauty nicely. Turn round for me, would ye?”
 

She made a slow, but perfect pirouette, looking over her shoulder at him the whole time.

Rory could feel the battlements around his heart start to crumble, look by solemn, blushing look. “Aye,” he confirmed when he had found his voice in the rubble. “Ye’ll make an admirable charwoman.”

“Ah!” Her dark eyes gleamed with appreciative understanding. “So I am the charwoman. And what about you?”
 

“Picture a black coat with red and white woven trim, with a white-powdered bag wig.”
 

Her eyes widened as slow recognition dawned. “Oh! You are to steal one of the runners’ coats!”

He winked at her in reward. “I am. What do ye think?” He pantomimed playing a stiff-postured guard leaning against the wall—turnabout was fair play, and he didn’t mind if he gave her a good look at himself. “Shall I look like a heartless thief taker?”

“With the right trimming, and proper shoes and stockings instead of boots, you will be perfect.”

“I will indeed. Because there is a closet under the stairs at Somerset House, full of such costumes. And I hope in the heat of the moment, they will not miss one coat, more or less.”

“In the heat of what moment?”

“We’ll get to that later. Now, back to ye. Do ye know how to scrub a floor? I realize that ye’re the daughter of an aristocratic
comte
, but what we’ll need ye to do is find yer hard-working birds of a feather, and flock together, if ye see what I mean?”

“The charwomen?”

“Exactly. I’ve had to guess at their mode of dress, but as they come in at night, I’m guessing their clothing will be less regular than say, maids who work for private households. But no matter what, scrub just like them, because just after midnight, I shall expect all hell to break loose inside that museum, and ye, my dear charwoman, will need to hang on to yer bucket.”

She was smiling at him. “A charwoman. Well, this has to be a first.” A happy, delighted smile that spread mischief across her face like raspberry jam.
 

Jam he would lick off in—

“I see it now—I can see your plan. Mr. Andrews, it is quite genius.” Her praise brought him back to the present.

It wasn't genius, just a long-shot of a silly goose of a plan. A plan that may yet get the two of them a long cool spell in a cold dank gaol. Or perhaps not.
 

Perhaps he could explain his way out of the Royal Academy’s bad books as their own hired expert, though it would take some doing to explain away why he was stealing a statue he had been engaged to authenticate. And still there remained the tricky, sticky question of why.

“And now, my dear Miss Blois, that I have demonstrated both my ability and my willingness to help ye steal a Verrocchio which ye already own, I should very much like ye to tell me
why
we are stealing such a thing in the first place. It makes damned little sense.”

“But I have already told you that I cannot tell you why.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Not good enough.”

She closed her eyes, and turned away. “But I cannot tell you why. I wish I could. I wish a lot of things. But I cannot.” She ended on a suspiciously watery sniff.

“Devil take it.” His crossed arms seemed to fall of their own accord to his pocket—where he normally kept a handkerchief. “Ye’re not going to cry, are ye?”

“No.” She shook her head vigorously. “I do not cry. I never cry.”

“No one
never
cries.” This he knew for a fact.
 

“I do not. Not even when we had to leave France for the very last time.” Her voice faded to a whisper so soft he could hear the catch in her voice.
 

“Don’t. Don’t,” he ordered again. He was an absolute idiot when it came to crying females. A quarter of Paris, half of St. Andrews, and all of dockside Leith knew that all he needed was a hiccupy smile and a tale of woe to make him loosen his purse strings. And his breeks. “Please don’t cry.”

“I will not,” she insisted, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I am sorry, but the truth is, I am in a simply awful bit of trouble, and I have got to get out of it, and you are the only disreputable person I know, and I do not know where else to turn.”

“Oh, ye’re just saying such nice things to soften me up.”

“I do not mean to,” she sniffed. “I swear.”

“But ye have done already.” He tried to harden his heart, but the truth was the mortar around his heart—not to mention other, more unruly parts of his anatomy—had already crumbled before sweet, petite, seemingly helpless Miss Blois.
 

But to tell her so would be deeply imprudent—she might have him stealing the crown jewels next. “Go on back, and change into yer own clothes. We’ll take these”—he indicated her second-hand togs—“in a parcel, and then ye’ll meet me at the gates of Somerset House tomorrow afternoon, at five PM sharp.”

She was so relieved and elated that she threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him soundly on each cheek, in the French manner. And he didn’t know when he’d been happier to please anybody.
 

He allowed himself the infinite pleasure of returning the embrace. Of wrapping his arms tight around her, and holding her close for a moment, no more.

It was harder than he thought to let her go.

He firmed his voice. “And wear something practical. Nothing particular, or personal. Respectable clothes, no more, no less. Cottons, not silk. Plain edgings, no lace. Do ye understand? No jewelry. Nothing that is memorable, or that would cause anyone to look yer way.” Which was nearly impossible—she was too beautiful not to be memorable. But he had to try.

She agreed to his strictures without a word of argument. “Thank you, Mr. Andrews.” It was as if she were lit from within, so luminous and grateful was her smile. “I can never thank you enough.”

Yes, she could.
 

He had plans for Mignon Blois that he was sure would astonish her just as much as they had already astonished him.

Chapter Thirteen

The next day at precisely four o’clock in the afternoon, Mignon smoothed her nervous hands over her drab, practical skirts, picked up her well-tied parcel, and tried to firm her shaky resolve.
 

Now that the time had come, she was not sure she could go through with it. She was not sure she could accompany Mr. Andrews, and play the charwoman, and be a thief.

But she was a Blois, after all, an ancient if dishonorable house full of rogues and scoundrels. Surely she could act as one of them. Surely the spirit of her naked, forgery-posing grandmama would see her through the course she had set for herself.

Not that any nakedness ought to be involved with Mr. Andrews’s plan, though she was going to have to change her clothes, after all. But he had always acted as the most gentlemanly of thieves.

And he did seem to have a good, solid, unimpeachable plan. A plan that required her at that moment to take her parcel, and exit her safe, predictable home in Soho Square.

In the foyer, Henri stood ready to open the front door. “Good afternoon,
Mademoiselle du Blois
. Going out?”

“Yes, Henri.” Mignon paused, thinking perhaps she ought to say something in case—in case things didn’t go according to Mr. Andrews’s well-prepared plan. In case she did end the evening in a small dank cell.
 

Best not to think about that. “Pray tell my father that I will be dining out this evening, and may be out, in fact, quite late, and he need not wait up for me.”