The Love List (13 page)

“Now then,” the proprietress approached, breathing heavily.  “What is it that ye need?”  She cast a doubting look over the duke and his fine, tailored ensemble.  “I’ll say it straight out, you’re not my usual sort of customer.” 

The shop girl’s expression had grown almost pleading.  She stared at Brynne and repeated the same movement with her hand.

The owner, frowning down at Aldmere’s shining boots, brightened after a moment. “Unless you’re after a masquerade costume?”  She waved a hand toward a corner.  “I’ve several of those to choose from, and all of the best quality, practically new.  Dominoes too, for men and women alike.”

The duke stepped forward with a smile and the assistant scuttled back, dropping her gaze.  “Not a masquerade,” Aldmere told the proprietress, “but something similar.  More of an amateur theatrical.”

“Ah.”  The lady shopkeeper nodded her head as if she were wise to the eccentricities of the nobility.  And perhaps she was, for she looked each of them over critically.  “What parts are ye to play, then?”

“That’s why we’ll need your expertise, ma’am, for we’ve a delicate balance to achieve.”  Aldmere leaned in toward her with a conspirator’s grin.  “You see, this play is just the slightest bit . . . naughty.”

The shopkeeper began to frown.

“Nothing too offensive,” Brynne hastened to reassure her.  She frowned at the duke.  Covering their tracks was one thing, making a spectacle of themselves was another.

“Indeed, no,” the duke seconded.  “Nothing that can not be done in mixed company.  It’s only that the young miss’s part is that of a former . . . lady of the evening.”

Brynne blinked, but played along.  “Such a challenging role!  I portray a poor young woman, alone and forced by poverty into a life of prostitution.” 

The proprietress nodded.  “A sad tale, but one we see about here often enough.”

“None half so comely as this one, I vow.” 

He was
trying
to discomfort her!  The twitching brow and twisted half-grin Aldmere shot her was worthy of any stage villain. 

“As the gentleman mentioned, this particular character is a
former
prostitute.  She’s all set to reform,” she arched a brow at Aldmere, “because
he
is playing the besotted clerk who wishes her to marry him.”

“But first they must gain her pimp’s permission,” Letty interjected sourly.

“It certainly sounds like an
interesting
play,” the shopkeeper said doubtfully.

“You’ll know how to dress her, then?” Aldmere asked. 

“I know just what you’ll want,” the woman reassured him.  “A girl like that wants to look like a lady, but has neither the money or the taste.”

“Exactly!” Aldmere beamed.  Then he turned his weighty gaze on Brynne again.  The teasing light fled, though, and the infuriating distance had gone.  For the most fleeting of moments his expression was naked, vivid, and potent.   Her pulse began to frisk about like a trapped rabbit.

“I’m envisioning a bit of ankle,” he said.  His gaze dropped.

As did Brynne’s heart.  When had her ankles become an erotic zone?  They were decently covered, invisible to his or any other eye, and yet they burned, tingling with a heat that reverberated up and up.  Growing warmth spiraled through her, stopping to take a slow and deliberate tour around more readily identifiable erotic zones.

And his gaze followed.  “Perhaps some bosom, too,” he said, musing.  “But not too much.”

Warmth?  She was blazing with heat.  Her bosom swelled a bit, seemingly of its own volition.  Her shoulders—

“Something with lace, perhaps,” the shopkeeper mused.  She saved Brynne by stepping close and blocking her view of the duke.  “You’ll want your . . . assets . . . front and center, but lace will give you a hint of skin without actually being immodest.  Then gloves, but not kid.  Maybe even something that has been mended.”  She raised a brow and looked to Brynne questioningly.

“It sounds perfect.”  And she sounded surprisingly normal.  She gathered her wits and reached for a semblance of decorum.  “And for the gentleman we’ll need something . . . garish.  He should not be so correctly tailored.  In the same way, he should have something just a little less than truly fashionable.”

“What of my part?” Letty asked with a smirk.

“You play the maid,” the duke said matter-of-factly, likely squelching the girl’s dreams of a more expensive choice.  “That should be easy enough to outfit.”

“Indeed,” the shop woman agreed.  “Jenny can take care of that.  But let’s finish you up first,” she said to Brynne.  “And then we can both see to the gentleman.”

Nodding, Brynne followed the woman toward the curtained alcove.  But she let a smile twist her mouth as she looked over her shoulder.  “Yes, did you hear that, Aldmere?  Your turn will come.”

* * *

Aldmere lingered near the closed curtain but shortly.  All the women had disappeared behind it.  He could hear the rustle of fabric and the cheerful drone of the shopkeeper’s commentary.  He caught the words
bare
and
tighter
before he beat a hasty retreat to the small window at the front of the shop.

He stared through the grime to a street he was unfamiliar with, into a world he didn’t know.  His fists clenched.  No matter.  For years he’d traversed the streets of Mayfair, the halls of Parliament, the passages of industry and the ballrooms of the
beau monde
.  Those spots might be cleaner, wider, and decked with polite smiles and hothouse flowers, but anyone who believed them to be less dangerous was a damned fool twice over.  He would press through, as he always did—only now he’d have to see the rest of them through as well.

He tensed as a crested carriage headed towards him, looking decidedly out of place, but relaxed as it moved on without slowing.  The sight of it had birthed the fleeting thought that this might all be an elaborate ruse.  Undoubtedly, Brynne Wilmott had dodged a bullet and saved herself from a nightmare of abuse and misery, but she hadn’t exactly landed in clover.  If she was looking for a way back, then marriage to a duke could smooth over nearly every sin.  She couldn’t know that, bad as Marstoke might be, a life tied to this particular duke would likely be just as miserable, and possibly even more dangerous. 

Rolling his shoulder, he dismissed the notion.  The sad truth was that even if she arranged to have them caught alone, he wouldn’t be expected to marry her.  Her good name was already ruined and the further scandal would be no more than a jaded Society expected of her.

But more than that, she didn’t appear to be the sneaky, manipulative type.  In fact, so far she’d been everything direct and independent.  Such an unusual chit she was.  Young, but so much more, as well.  Those odd, compelling green eyes of hers could
see
.  She was quick to spot a problem, sharp-witted enough to devise a solution and courageous enough to see it done.  From every indication, she was loyal, which he admired, and likely relentless, which he could sympathize with. 

In short, she scared the hell out of him.

But she didn’t bore him.

With a muffled curse, he turned away from the window—and startled the little shop girl.  She’d crept close, within a few feet of him, and he hadn’t heard a sound.  And though she had a hand buried in pile of fichus on a nearby table, her eyes were all for him.  Utterly focused, she was, as if trying to memorize his features.

He frowned and took a step nearer, but she dropped the bit of fabric in her hand and took flight for the back of the room.  Almost before he could blink, she disappeared behind the curtain. 

He followed, but the girl passed Brynne Wilmott stepping out, and he found himself stopping to take her in.

“You look . . . perfect,” he said eventually.

“I feel like a daisy.”  She grimaced, but watched his face.

“A perfect daisy,” he clarified.

She did.  They’d loosened her hair so that it framed her face, an inky black cloud above the cheerful primrose and white of her ensemble. 
Tighter
definitely applied to her new bodice.  Her old gown had skimmed her curves.  This one pulled them in and pushed them higher.  An embroidered white sash cinched her waist and her skirts belled out just the right amount—he looked down—yes, just high enough to showcase a delicately trim pair of ankles.

“Now it’s your turn,” she said, and the mischief in her tone dragged his attention back up.  “If I have to look like a summer flower, it’s only fair that you should resemble a . . . Christmas bough.”

She reached behind her.  The shop woman handled over a bundle and eyed his boots again.  Her disapproval was clear.  “Those won’t do.  Ye’ll need somethin’ far more ordinary.  Clogs, perhaps.  I’m sure I’ve just the thing,” she said, bustling off.

Aldmere raised a brow at Miss Wilmott.  “I’m not giving up my boots.  And there’s not a chance in hell that I’m wearing clogs.  What if I need to fight?”

The girl shook her head.  “We’ll walk you through a puddle or something.  In the meantime . . .” She broke out into a grin as she held forth a scarlet waistcoat with elaborate gold embroidery.  But it was the garment she held in her other hand that drew him up short.

Sturdy enough, if not of the best quality, the coat was broad of shoulder, narrow of waist and of that distinctive bright hue known as bottle green.  A bit old fashioned and too garish for a gentleman, it was exactly right for his intended role. 

He took a step back anyway.  Sharp, stabbing pain should not accompany something so innocuous, but how many times, into how many adventures, had he followed a coat just like that?  That proud and cheerful color, in no way subdued, demanded attention, just as its owner had.  That jacket’s twin had accompanied him into every major event and minor mishap of his life.

Miss Wilmott halted, her triumph fading into concern.  “Are you well?”  Her hands dropped to her sides.  “What’s amiss?”

He thrust the memories away.  “Not a thing.”  He tossed her a glance.  A challenge, meant to distract them both, and then he began to peel off his coat.  “The green merely reminded me of someone.  An old friend.”  With a wriggle he slid out of his superfine and started on his waistcoat buttons.

Naturally, she did not back down.  Instead, as the color climbed charmingly higher in her cheeks, she held up the waistcoat and helped him into it.  Smoothed it with gentle hands across his back, then circled around to begin fastening buttons, starting at the top.  Their fingers met, and brushed against each other, at the middle.

Just the lightest of touches.  Barely there, like the rush of air when a bird swoops past, too close for comfort.  He started to heat up anyway.

She reached for the coat.

“You’ve the makings of a good manservant,” he said, aiming for distraction again.

But his aim was off this time, for he was flooded suddenly with images of her in his bedroom, standing close, bending over his bath, kneeling before him with a stretch of silk stocking in her hand—

“Thank you,” she said with a smile.  “I’ll file this away as yet another skill learned in the past months.”  Her mouth quirked wryly.  “Cosmetics, fashion, lessons in how to pick both a lock and a pocket.  You’d be amazed at the sheer number of things I had never done before now.”

“You seem to have adapted exceptionally well.”

Ducking around to check the fit at the back, she didn’t answer.

“What is your goal, Miss Wilmott?” he asked, suddenly serious.  “You’ve spoken of plans that the Love List will ruin.  What are they?”

She stepped back around to the front of him and straightened the crease of the coat.  “I have many goals,” she replied.  Her smile had gone away.  “And none of them include hiring myself out as a valet.”  She stood back.  “Now.  Let’s see if we pass muster.”  She turned.  “Letty?” she called.  “We await your inspection.”

No answer came.  No sound at all emerged from behind the curtain. 

Aldmere stiffened.

The shop woman bustled over.  “Those daft girls,” she muttered.  “They was thick as thieves back there.  Likely they didn’t hear you call.”  She swung open the curtain and headed for the smaller one toward the back.  Peeking in, she frowned and then stood back and threw that one open too.  “They’re gone,” she puzzled.  “Both of them.”

“Damn the girl.” Aldmere cursed.  Grimly he met Miss Wilmott’s stricken gaze.  “We’d better move fast.”

Seven

The captain was equally as struck by me.  We exchanged only glances that first day.  Long, intense and curious glances, neither of us trying to disguise our intent.  The next day he was waiting, and he had prepared.  He had a mutual friend at the ready, primed to make the formal introductions . . .

—from the Journals of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

Perhaps there was something to the old witticism about clothing making the man, or perhaps the duke was just a skilled performer.  One way or the other, it didn’t feel like the same man on her arm.  His walk felt less bold.  The distracted clumsiness he showed when he stepped in first one puddle, then another, appeared perfectly natural. 

But then, the breath of air across her ankles and the jaunty swing of her skirts were affecting her too.  They lent her a lighter, freer feeling that she tried to incorporate into her step.  It would have been easier, were it not for the squalor around her.

The streets had grown narrower now, and more so the higher one looked, as if the buildings leaned together to share whispers and pass threats.  Laundry hung between them, although other vile things were also strung up on the criss-crossing lines.  Brynne shuddered as they passed beneath a string of plucked pigeons and what must have been skinned rats hanging alongside.  A boy sat at the window, jealously guarding his treasure.

Aldmere tucked her arm more firmly against his side.  “A few blocks to go, if the girl spoke true,” he said low.  “There are more people about here.  Stick close—and pretend that you are happy to do so.”

There was no need for pretense.  Brynne had seen a great many unsavory things since she came to Hestia’s, including one visit to a flash house filled with abandoned children that still haunted her dreams.  The people here shared that same gaunt, hollow-eyed look—or else they wore the watchful, cagey gaze of a predator.