The Love List (12 page)

Fingers of fear reached for her, trying to entrap her with impotence and despair.  She stood tall, refusing to acknowledge them.  Rigid, she faced Aldmere with stiff determination.

He narrowed his eyes in Hestia’s direction.  “You just spent considerable energy convincing me that this could be deeper and more dangerous than I thought.  And yet you wish to send this girl into the middle of it?” 

“She’s already in the middle of it,” Hestia said patiently.  “And it’s Marstoke who has put her there.”  Her mouth quirked.  “And believe me, I would be the very last to deny a woman so abused by the marquess her chance at revenge.” 

Aldmere’s gaze snapped back to Brynne’s.  Unrelenting, they stared at each other while tension snapped and sparked in the very air between them.  “A temporary alliance only, then,” he said at last.  “Just until we find my brother.”

Temper still flaring, Brynne lifted her chin.  Surely it was a fine thing, his worry for his brother.  Admirable.  It would be a point in his favor, in fact, did he not appear to have an aversion to worrying about anyone else, as well.  And did it not smack of a ruthless and dogged pursuit of his own goals.  A tad too close to her father’s methods for her comfort.  And not too far from Marstoke’s practices, either. 

Still, concern was a good look for him, all flashing eyes and broad, tense shoulders.  And that was exactly what she had no business worrying about.

“Your brother, of course,” she said to him, lifting one scornful brow, “but we’ll also be looking for any other means of stopping the publication of this List.”

“Just be careful, Brynne,” Callie warned.  “Your name on that Love List could be the end of your hopes and plans.  But so could any other sort of scandal.  It won’t do to trade one for the other.”

“I doubt it would do me any good, either,” Aldmere interjected with irony.

Sardonic
man
.  Heavens above, but she wished she could deal with Marstoke on her own.  Well, she hadn’t let the marquess bully her, nor would she allow the duke.  “Don’t worry, your Grace,” Brynne assured him with only a taste of scorn.  “I’ll do my best to protect your reputation.”

“If you did, you’d be the first young lady of marriageable age to try.”  His expression had gone quite empty once again.  “Do what you must, Miss Wright, to see your enterprise safe.  Miss Wilmott and I will find Tru.  And then we’ll be done.”

And Brynne, who mere weeks ago had vowed never again to place herself at the mercy of a man’s objective, stood and prepared to do just that.  Except that this time she would get something out of it as well.  She was willing to use the duke’s power and influence to solve this thorny problem, but then she would move on, and ahead with her plans.  She would be
done
with Aldmere—and with all self-absorbed males.

Six

I saw him for the first time at the Pump Rooms.  Captain Wilson.  He stood at the inner windows, bathed in the most fascinating light.  Sunshine came from above to pick out gold threads in his hair while the baths reflected a fluid radiance from below.  He had abandoned his naval uniform, though his coat had a decided military flair.  He was the most exotically masculine man I had ever seen.  I was entranced . . .

—from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

Marstoke takes a swing and many people reel from the blow
.  His own words echoed through Aldmere even as he strode through quickly deteriorating streets.  Truth gave them teeth and right now they were gnawing through his gut.  This List was meant to destroy both Brynne Wilmott and Hestia Wright.  But what if Tru was to be thrown in as an aside?

He supposed that the likelihood of such a thing came down to the question of just what Truitt had done to get himself in Marstoke’s debt in the first place.  The marquess had spoken as if it had been a wager or a gaming debt, but Aldmere remembered his first, gut instinct that it might have something to do with the kidnapped Russian girl that rumor said Tru had rescued. 

But that begged the question; what could Marstoke have to do with a Russian servant girl?

A snarling pair of dogs raced past and ripped him from his contemplation and back to the present.  A mistake to let his mind wander here.  He glanced over at Brynne Wilmott.  A mistake, too, to bring her along on this encounter.  They’d left his carriage behind blocks ago, according to Letty’s direction, in a neighborhood with a desperate grip on respectability.  The street they traversed now had let that pretense slip away long ago.  Ramshackle shops and worn houses, intact if not respectable, marched next to abandoned buildings, their windows gaping or boarded over in endless patterns. 

He didn’t like it—and he liked it less with each step they took. 

“Tell me about what is ahead,” he said to Letty.  “Describe the route that we’re to take.”  The girl had begun to look increasingly nervous.  He wanted the particulars fixed in his head in case she decided to bolt.

She answered his questions, though, painting a picture of the lanes and landmarks ahead, her pretty face marred with the same sour expression of reluctance she’d worn since they left Craven Street.

“I don’t know why I bother,” she said under her breath when she’d finished.

Miss Wilmott let loose a heavy sigh of exasperation.  “Just say what you mean, Letty.”

“Well, I will then!” Letty returned.  “You don’t neither of you know what you are getting yourselves into.  Miss Hestia, now she has safe passage.  She can go anywhere in the city without bother.  But the pair of you?  You’re like babes in the woods,” she said with a roll of her eyes.

Aldmere nodded and looked about them.  “We do look out of place.”

If Letty had been playing a part on stage, she would have smacked her hand against her head for effect.  As it was, she only smirked.  “You could say that.”  She shook her head.  “Look at you both,” she gestured.  “And then look around.  You don’t belong here—and strangers are not tolerated.”  Her mouth quirked.  “You could ask your brother about that—he had a hard enough time in these parts, until he proved himself.”

“Then we’ll prove ourselves, as well,” Miss Wilmott said defiantly.

Letty laughed.  “You won’t have a chance.”  She lifted her chin in his direction.  “You look like a duke and she looks like the hired governess.  Someone will mark you at any second.  You’ll never make it as far as the den.”

He cursed under his breath.

“I’ll tell you how it will happen,” Letty smirked at him.  “Some ragtag fellow is going to stumble into you in a matter of minutes.”  She gestured toward his waistcoat.  “He’ll slip a hand in your pocket and a knife in your belly at the same time.  Then as you lie bleeding in the ditch, they’ll be draggin’ Miss Brynne here to the nearest abbess.”

Damn it all.  He’d let his worry for Tru send him off half cocked.  He cast a glance at Brynne Wilmott and cursed again.  Letty could take care of herself, he knew, but for the first time in a long time he’d taken on a direct, personal burden and the worry for someone else’s welfare.  He should have gone alone.  Insisted on it, or just walked out of Hestia Wright’s house.  But he hadn’t truly tried—and that was the most disturbing part of this business.

That, and the fact that the girl’s presence was only going to make this more difficult, in every way.  He’d have to think harder, plan smarter and keep her safety in the forefront of his mind—when all he should be concentrating on was his brother.

Frustration gnawed at him.  He’d let the girl muddle his thinking.  He hadn’t been so careless in nearly fifteen years.  This time he had to be damned sure that she didn’t pay the price.  She might be a young idealist headed for certain heartbreak, but it sure as hell was not going to hit her on his watch. 

His fists clenched.  He looked down at his white linen and shining Hessians, then spent longer than he needed running an assessing eye over Brynne Wilmott’s small frame and her perfectly proportioned curves, covered in demure, fitted wool.

It took an expenditure of will, but he tore his gaze from her and cast about, thinking hard.  Nothing here.  Barking an order, he stalked ahead to the next intersection.  And felt the tension in his shoulders ease just a bit.  There.  Just a block down the third street, exactly what they needed.

“What is it?”  Miss Wilmott asked as the women caught him up.  “Are you looking for something, your Grace?”

“Yes.  A way to even the odds, a bit.  And there it is.”

“Where?” she asked, turning. 

“The second-hand shop,” he said, pointing.  “The perfect spot to forge a couple of new identities.”

* * *

Brynne entered the shop just ahead of the duke.  The bell tinkling merrily overhead felt like an affront, it was so contrary to her current state—namely, unnerved by Letty’s dire predictions and annoyed by the girl’s continuous scowl and obvious disapproval. 
You don’t belong here
.  Letty’s words of warning had become an accusation bouncing off the corners of her mind.  She belonged nowhere.  Did the wretched girl think that she needed reminding?  She didn’t.  That had been a large part of the despair that had laid her low after she arrived in Craven Street—and now that she’d finally concocted a plan, a way to regain her pride and be of use, the damned Love List had come along to wreck it.

Anger and frustration threatened to swamp her again—until she stepped far enough inside to register her surroundings.  Then she stopped in her tracks, gaping in wonder. 

She’d had a doll once, as a child.  Back when her mother had been alive and her place in the world had never been questioned.  The porcelain beauty had come with the most amazing assortment of old fashioned clothes—a small trunk full of lovely wide gowns of rich brocade and elaborate lace.  The doll, named Octavia, had become a constant companion for a time and her mother had lovingly sewn them both a selection of matching light muslin gowns.  As a result, Octavia’s box had been an overstuffed, constantly overflowing riot of many colors and fabrics and trims. 

It felt as if someone had picked her up by the scruff of the neck and set her down in that trunk.  “Good heavens,” she breathed.  The place was silent, devoid of life, but bursting with every sort of clothing imaginable, piled on tables, hanging from racks and lining shelves.

Her eye was drawn at once to a corner made bright with colorful gowns of fine fabric and intricate embroidery.  Resolutely, she turned away, irritated once again at the reminder of the choices that had been thrust onto her.  She took a step toward a table filled with likelier garments—and faltered.

Aldmere’s gaze lay upon her.  She didn’t have to turn to verify the knowledge.  She felt the weight of his stare, as real and tactile as a touch.  It traced a path over her, raising a line of prickled skin, unseen under the light kerseymere of her gown, and she found herself unnerved in a totally new fashion. 

Distracted, she lifted the garment closest to hand.  A peasant blouse, made to fall off the shoulder with just the loosening of a string.  In a haze, she traced the adjustable neckline and thought that if she were truly the sort to wear such a thing, she would right now give the duke something to look at.  She’d be unobtrusively untying her knots, shrugging her shoulders and taunting him with the bare expanse of her skin.

It would be no less than he deserved.  She turned a hard look over her shoulder and locked her eyes with his.

It was an entirely different gaze than the one she’d met across the expanse of a massive desk this morning.  All morning, and even on the occasion of the momentous night when they’d first met, the duke had looked at her as if . . . she interested him.  He’d spoken frankly and she’d done the same and he always appeared to be waiting for—almost anticipating—what she might say next.  But something had changed at Hestia’s.  He’d gone remote, his gaze cold.  He looked at her now in a calculating manner, as if he wondered if she was up to the challenge that lay before them.

Her chin raised, but before she could speak, the ring of a sliding curtain called their attention to the back of the shop.

“Good afternoon to ye, then!”  A plump woman entered the main room, her plain face lit up with a smile and a box balancing precariously on her hip.  “I’ll be of service to ye in just a minute, if ye please.”  Behind her, beyond the opened curtain, a mirrored alcove was visible, a raised platform in the middle.  Past that lurked a short passage with another, smaller curtain and a doorway propped open to the outside. 

“I’ve a new delivery that needs sortin’ but I’ll just set it down back here,” the proprietress continued.  “Won’t take but a moment.”  She turned her head and shouted, “Jenny!  Come in now, girl.  Let that lad get on with his deliveries.  We’ve customers!” Without waiting for an answer, she glanced back in Brynne’s direction.  “Not that one, dearie,” she said with a nod toward the blouse Brynne still held.  “The linen’s worn so thin, it’s near indecent.”

A choking sound of agreement came from the duke’s direction.  “Most definitely not that one,” he said thickly.

Brynne hadn’t truly wanted the garment, but she turned on him anyway.  Why did everything about the man solicit a ridiculously strong reaction in her? 

“There’s only one sort of woman routinely going in to see Hatch,” she huffed.  “I have to look the part.”

She regretted the words as soon as she’d said them.  The shopkeeper’s assistant had entered on quiet feet.  She’d only just moved into the front room when Brynne spoke.  At Hatch’s name, the girl froze.

Aldmere shot Brynne a warning glance.

Still caught in a fearful trance, the girl met Brynne’s gaze, then very deliberately moved her right hand to her chest, her fingers cramped into a complicated arrangement.