The Bolingbroke Chit: A Regency Romance (18 page)

Mr. Horn jerked his head to the left, indicating the back of the tavern. “’E’s meeting with an associate right now but should be done soon. Ye can wait ’ere with us.”

Philip could not imagine anything more awful than sitting at the dirty table with four roughs, unless it was drinking ale at the dirty table with four roughs. Then suddenly he heard a sound that truly made his blood turn cold.

“Emma!” Trent called from across the room.

The Rusty Plinth fell silent. Every single person in the taproom—patrons, barkeeps, serving wenches—immediately stopped what they were doing to watch the Duchess of Trent greet her husband.

Only Philip turned away.

As if not the least discomforted by the duke’s unexpected presence or his angry tone, Emma turned to Mr. Horn and thanked him for his gracious invitation. “If you’ll excuse me, I see my husband is here and would like to confer with me on a matter. Perhaps we can have a proper visit when my business with Mr. Squibbs is concluded.”

Although Philip held the Harlow Hoyden in the highest esteem and applauded her daring, he thought this statement was a little much, even for her. “Emma,” he said warningly.

Emma dismissed his concern as needlessly anxious. Yes, the duke was glowering at them as if he’d caught them in some inappropriate embrace, and, yes, he did seem as though he was about to carry them off like recalcitrant children. But Emma knew she had done nothing wrong. Perhaps Philip had broken his word to Trent, but all she had ever promised was not to come down to the docks again by herself—and she hadn’t. Her proof was trembling right by her side.

Calmly, Emma weaved through the tables toward the back of the room, where her husband stood next to the gentleman she had come to see. As always, she greeted Mr. Squibbs warmly and thanked him for being available for an unscheduled meeting. Then, aware that the best way to deflect criticism was to offer one’s own, she turned to her husband and said, “Shame on you, Alex. I expected better of you.”

The duke’s foreboding expression did not lighten. “As
I
expected better of
you.
” Then he shifted his gaze to Philip. “And you.”

Philip’s shoulders drooped at the charge, but Emma lifted her head and said, “Don’t try to turn this around, you associate-poaching scrubber. Mr. Squibbs is my most trusted ally, not yours. If you want to have a resourceful lock pick on retainer, then I suggest you start poking around the docks now and leave Mr. Squibbs and me to our business.”

Now the duke’s lips twitched as he said, “I thought
I
was your most trusted ally, imp.”

She scoffed. “You are obviously not trustworthy at all, for you clearly went behind my back to ask Mr. Squibbs to locate Mr. Holyroodhouse. That is the purpose of your mission, is it not?”

Her husband shook his head. “I know what you are doing, Emma, and as much as I admire the strategy and how well you employ it, I will not let you change the subject. You swore to me that you would not come here again.”

“Alone,” she said with quiet vehemence. “I agreed to your unreasonable demand not to come here
alone.
And I did not. I came with Philip.”

“Yes, and what about that?” he asked with an accusatory look at his cousin. “I had your word you would not bring her down here.”

Annoyed at the passivity of his comment—as if Emma Harlow let anyone bring her anywhere—she said, “I kidnapped him.”

Philip’s eyeballs popped out at that outrageous statement, for although he might have been manipulated into the adventure, he had most certainly not been abducted against his will. “Now, see here—”
Trent leaned against the doorjamb and smiled at the ridiculous ploy. “You expect me to believe you carried off a grown man against his will.”

Grateful for the doubt, Philip said, “Here’s the way—”

Emma did not let him finish. “Snatched the reins from a grown man and it was easy enough. And now
you
are trying to distract
me
from the larger issue, which is your attempt to control me. You can’t tell me I can’t come down here by myself and then eliminate all my possible escorts. That’s not playing fair.”

“What’s not fair is your charge of unfairness,” the duke said. “If you will recall what happened the last time you came down here by yourself and what would have happened had Mr. Squibbs not intervened. A note would have been sufficient to bring him to Grosvenor Square. You did not need to come down here.”

“Exactly,” Emma said with satisfaction, as if he had just proven her point, her eyes squinting just a little as a shard of light from the open front door reached even that deeply into the building. “A note would have been sufficient for your needs as well but you didn’t send one because you were too much in a rush to get help for—”

“Vinnie,” Mr. Squibbs said, not bothering to smother a smile as he inserted himself into the marital dispute. Although he had not had the pleasure of witnessing the duke’s every attempt to protect his wife from her own reckless nature, he’d observed enough of them to know neither participant would win.

Emma nodded at Squibbs, grateful for the assistance of her trusted associate. “Yes, Vinnie, because we are all too worried about her to—”

“No,” Mr. Squibbs said, pointing to the door, where another newcomer now stood. “Miss Lavinia Harlow is here.”

Shocked, Emma and the duke turned their heads in unison to see Vinnie standing with her back to the door and an uncertain expression on her face. It was not fear at the rough company but curiosity and then delight as Mr. Horn introduced himself and promptly pointed to where her family stood at the back of the room.

Vinnie nodded with gratitude and quickly made her way through the maze of tables, all eyes following her as the most unusual business meeting the Rusty Plinth had ever hosted grew even more interesting. With a pert step that indicated a heretofore unseen optimism about her situation, Vinnie stopped in front of her sister.

Emma gaped at her in amazement as Trent tried to process the fact that his gentle and kind sister-in-law had blithely stepped into one of the roughest establishments in London.

Equally horrified, they both said, “How dare you come down here alone!” at the exact same time. Then Emma looked at her husband and requested the right to chastise her first, as Vinnie was her twin.

“A valid argument, imp,” Trent said. “Have at it.”

Vinnie ignored their foolishness and greeted Mr. Squibbs with a polite handshake. Then she looked at the company and added, “Am I right in assuming you have already been given the assignment of identifying and locating Mr. Holyroodhouse?”

But Emma was not to be put off so easily. “Vinnie, do you have any idea how dangerous it was for you to come down here on your own? There are some lovely people here, of course, including Mr. Squibbs and his associates, but the Rusty Plinth is, by and large, a den of iniquity. You could have been killed or worse.”

“Your understanding of the situation is heartening, Emma,” her husband said, “for you had seemed not to comprehend it at all.”

Emma sighed heavily. “But
I
did not come alone.”

Unlike her sister, Vinnie was instantly contrite. “You are right to take me to task, Emma, for I did act impulsively. I had not intended to come here, but as I left Lady Agatha’s house—and please do not take me to task for making benign morning calls, for I had to do
something
to take my mind off the matter—it suddenly occurred to me that someone doesn’t just know the truth about what happened to Sir Waldo, someone knows the
truth,
” she explained, her voice lowering to a whisper as she finished the sentence. Mr. Squibbs, the soul of discretion, walked a few paces away to give them their privacy. “Someone knows our secret. Once I realized that, I didn’t stop to think but came here as fast as I could to request the resourceful Mr. Squibbs’s help. We have to discover that name.”

Aware of the elevated level of interest in their business, Mr. Squibbs suggested they continue their conversation in the backroom, where they could finalize the details of his assignment without being overheard or interrupted.

“An excellent idea,” Trent agreed, “but we might as well wait.”

“Wait?” asked Philip, who still felt aggrieved by Alex’s and Emma’s treatment and hoped to defend himself better once they were alone. “Wait for what?”

“I’m sure it will be only a minute or two,” the duke added.

“
What
will be only a minute or two?” Philip asked.

“Just a little more patience,” Trent advised as the front door opened to let in another patron. “And there it is.”

Confused and frustrated at his cousin’s persistence in not answering his questions, Philip gasped, “What?” just as Emma grasped Trent’s meaning. Vinnie, seeing the enlightenment on her sister’s face, turned immediately to the door to watch her fiancé navigate the taproom of the Rusty Plinth with cautious experience.

“May we adjourn to the backroom now?” Emma asked, her blue eyes glinting with mischief as she greeted the marquess with a cheerful nod. “Or do you expect the dowager to arrive in a moment, perhaps with Caruthers in tow for protection? Or will she come alone like Vinnie?”

Although still a few feet away, Huntly was close enough to overhear this comment and his face immediately turned ashen. “What?”

Vastly amused, for surely everything was going to be all right now that the capable Mr. Squibbs was on the case, Emma linked arms with Vinnie and led her through the doorway to the backroom, a considerably brighter and cleaner space than the public hall. “On second thought, you are probably better off not acquiring a husband. As soon as they have a ring on your finger, they start making unreasonable demands.”

Outraged, Huntly said, “Not coming alone to the most dangerous enterprise in town is
not
an unreasonable demand.”

Emma smiled knowingly at her sister as if her point had just been proven.

Chapter Eight

If attending a ball
at which everyone was speculating about a certain young lady’s murderous past because of an illustration you drew was painful, then entertaining that same young lady in your own drawing room was pure agony.

As she sat down on the sofa, Agatha could not figure out where to rest her eyes. Looking directly into her guest’s smiling visage was most definitely not an option. How Miss Harlow managed to accomplish that—smile when a charge of murder had been leveled against her—was beyond Agatha’s comprehension. If the situations were reversed, she would be unable to leave the house without a scowl firmly affixed, let alone pay a social call as if nothing untoward had happened.

Agatha, who could barely stand under the weight of her own guilt, found the other woman’s attitude very unsettling. Anger she could understand or despair or even defiance, but this overt cheerfulness was so inexplicable it felt like an elaborate trick to gull her into confessing.

Or perhaps this was merely what true innocence looked like. Miss Harlow’s conscience was so clear, she didn’t know to be mortified.

Struggling to stem her own mortification, Agatha glanced at the spot on the wall to the left of her guest’s shoulder and asked, “Would you like some tea, Miss Harlow?”

“Vinnie, please,” she insisted before announcing that a cup of tea would be delightful.

Agatha blanched at the informality—as if they were friends!—and reached for the teapot. Pouring the hot brew gave her something tangible to focus on, and she drew out the process as long as she could, fussing over the simple task with far more care than it deserved. To her utter desolation, however, she could not linger over the distribution of sugar cubes indefinitely, and eventually she had to raise her head to meet the clear blue eyes of Vinnie Harlow.

It required all of Agatha’s self-possession not to flinch. Inside, she recoiled as if slapped on the cheek by a hulking brute, but outwardly she remained calm as she tried to think of an innocuous topic. Her ability to make polite conversation, hampered in the best of times by a genuine indifference, was thoroughly incapacitated by a stricken conscience.

Unaware of her host’s sudden muteness, Vinnie leaned forward and said, “I must apologize.”

The announcement was so bizarre, so unexpected and incongruous, Agatha immediately heard a strange hum in her ears and she wondered if her anxiety had brought on a fit of apoplexy.

No, she thought, giving her head a slight shake to see if she could dislodge the sound. To her dismay, she could not. No, this was part of Miss Harlow’s cunning plan to trick a confession out of her. She knew who was responsible for that hideous drawing and rather than confront her directly, she intended to torture her until she revealed every gruesome detail herself.

It would not work, Agatha resolved. No matter what the provocation, she would keep her silence. It was not only that the secret of Mr. Holyroodhouse’s identity must remain secure, but also the unbearable fact that she had been a dupe. Someone had wanted to cause Miss Harlow great pain and had used her to accomplish it.

And how readily she had complied!

She should have known something was wrong. Indeed, she
had
known it, which was why she had relied on Ellen’s opinion to calm her misgivings. What an act of madness that was! To expect a lady’s maid to see the whole picture—to be able to identify a likeness to Miss Harlow, to know the facts of Sir Waldo’s death, to have the worldliness to question the straightforward narrative of the image. The dear girl knew nothing of the ways of the
ton
, neither its players nor its machinations, and would have no cause to wonder at the drawing’s hidden message.