The Love List (21 page)

Which was a good enough reason not to mention it.

“Now, why don’t you go and rest a bit while I bathe?  I’ll come and find you before I set out.”

Callie’s shoulders dropped as she relented.  “Very well, then.  As long as you promise not to do anything you—or I—will regret.”

“I do.”  It was an easy promise to make.  For one concession from Aldmere was not enough to tempt her to trust him much further. 
Strong and independent
.  She needed to remind herself and convince the world.  She could rely on herself and confront whatever obstacles stood in her way, even if they came wrapped in a package of dark and enticing masculinity.

Especially then.  For Brynne’s path was clear.  She could not diminish herself or jeopardize her plans for something so fleeting as love.  For that’s what Callie feared.   Her friend didn’t understand that Brynne knew all about love—and its limitations.  She’d been banging her head against that wall since her mother died. 

Yes, love can warm you with a flash of heat, a flare of interest or affection—or desire.  But it doesn’t sustain.  She knew better than to count on it to last.  Not even a father’s love could escape that basic truth.  Love fades, loses footing to other goals, other passions. 

So, yes, she might be deeply attracted to Aldmere.  She might be infatuated with his dark, good looks, inordinately fond of his broad shoulders and still waiting for that last puzzle piece of a smile to appear.  But these were passing pleasures.  

And her future waited.

So she saw Callie out, opened the door to a new parade of girls bearing clean, hot water, and prepared to meet it.

Twelve

Thwarted love may burn brightest, but not often the longest.  Captain Wilson tired of secrecy, and of the notion that we had no future.  I pleaded with Mother, but she was furious.  I was to forget the Captain and look higher—perhaps at the future Lord M—.  I sobbed my heart out when the Captain said goodbye.

—from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

“Flowers, sir?” 

“No.  Thank you.”  Aldmere shook his head at the girl in the threadbare cloak and carefully eased his cabriolet into Hungerford Market.  At midday the pace of the place had slowed.  The smell of the river, so close, hung heavy in the air, as vendors, desperate to make a late sale, called in strident tones.  The scant few shoppers they hoped to attract held their purses tight as they dickered for bargains on fish beginning to turn and vegetables wilting in the sun.

He could detect no sign of Brynne Wilmott, but then, he was early.  Sighing, he glanced up at the niche on the northern side of the dilapidated market building.  “I’m a fool,” he said to the besmirched and bewigged bust of Sir Edward Hungerford. 

He was eager to start the day’s adventure, eager to find Tru.  But only to Sir Edward would he admit that for the first time in years, he’d almost eagerly, certainly voluntarily, let someone close.  He’d taken on a burden once again, pledged himself to guard Brynne Wilmott’s welfare, and all for a pair of odd green eyes and a mouth that begged silently for his kiss.

“Sir?  Flowers?”

“No,” he repeated irritably.  He glanced down.  The girl had squeezed between his rig and an empty, unhitched cart.  The armful of tulips she extended toward him was a bright incongruity next to the urgency in her wide gaze.

“Please, sir.  For your lady.”

He paused, distracted by the thickness of her accent.  Not the street patter one would expect, but a rich, Eastern inflection.  “You should move away,” he said.  “My cattle are calm now, but if something should spook them, you could be hurt.”

She ignored his advice.  “Please.  My name, she’s Yelena.  I would speak with you.”  Her gaze pleaded with him.  “Yes?”

He looked closer.  She wore a plain gown beneath the tattered cloak, but it looked to be constructed of quality fabric.

“You are the very fine duke, no?  I would speak of your brother.”

Immediately he reached for her.  “Come up,” he ordered.

“No!”  Panicked, she glanced around.  “You buy my flowers?  And we are not seen.”

“Fine.”  With slow movements he reached for his purse.  “Talk.”

“I come with a warning.  You will tell Lord Truitt?  He must be very careful.  Leaving this city, it would be better.”

“Why?”  Deliberately he dropped the purse to the floorboards.  “What is it you know?”  He narrowed his gaze as he bent down.  “Do you know where Tru is?”

“No, but men look for him.”  Her expression paled.  “Very dangerous men, sent by an angry nobleman.”

“Marstoke?” he asked.

Her hand trembled as she reached for the coin he offered.  “Yes!  He is hearing things and it is putting him in a madness.”  She looked up.  “You will tell Lord Truitt to go?”

Aldmere reached for the flowers.  Under the cover of the massive bouquet he gripped her hand tight.  “Who are you?”

Eyes widening, she tried to tug away.

“You’re the Russian girl, aren’t you?  The Grand Duchess’s chit—the one who was abducted?  Tru
did
rescue you, didn’t he?”

“Yes!  He was . . .”  She paused, searching for the word.  “Valiant.  Yes?  So brave.  And I was so frightened!  No one knew then that the abduction was not true.  A fake, you say?  The nobleman and his compatriots were very angry with Lord Truitt at first, but then they gave him work to do for them.  Now he is not to be found and their anger grows more frightening.”

“
Marstoke
was behind your abduction?” Aldmere asked, shocked.  “Why?”

“He thought to trick my mistress.  To gain her trust when he returned me to her.”  Breathing out, she shook her head.  “He does not know who he plays with.  My lady dreamed of more twisted plots as a child, to escape her tutors.  She knows his secrets.  But they want the same things, so she tolerates the English nobleman, pretending that she does not know all.”

“And what is it that they both want?”  Although careful not to hurt her, he held tight to her wrist.

“I do not know.  I swear.  They speak with hatred of your fat prince, that is all I hear.”

Surprised, he let her go.

“I do not care for any of it,” she said, her voice harsh.  “I want only to go home.  But Lord Truitt was kind to me.  I would not wish him hurt.”

He stared blankly at her for a moment.  “How did you know to find me here, today?”

Resentfully, she rubbed her wrist.  “Your nobleman talks prettily to my mistress, but I listen to his friends.  They think that I know not their words.  That I am stupid and I do not understand that they are the ones that grabbed me, frightened me.  They speak of you, and of a woman.”  She shrugged.  “Your lady lives in a house of women.  It is simple to bribe one to learn what I need to know.”

He cursed.  “You are an apt pupil.  No doubt the Grand Duchess would be proud.”

“You will not tell?  She would not like to know that I have warned you, but Lord Truitt . . .”

“No.  I won’t tell.” 

She nodded.  For a moment he thought she would speak again, but she darted a look across the market.  Her eyes widened and without a word, she turned and slipped away.  Aldmere stared at the riotous bouquet he still held, his thoughts stumbling over each other.

“Excuse me.”

It was the same, thick accent, but from a masculine throat.  Aldmere looked up to find a tall man standing at the shoulder of his left hand bay.  In exquisite morning dress, he might have passed as an English gentleman—until he spoke. 

“I search for a girl,” he said.  Aldmere didn’t react under the man’s intense, watchful gaze.  “A young girl, very pretty.  From my country.  Dressed in servant’s clothes.  Have you seen her?”

“No.  Sorry, but I’ve only just drove in.”  Aldmere lifted his bundle of blooms.  “Only seen a flower girl, so far, and she’s naught but a drab little thing.”

“You are certain?”  The gentleman narrowed his gaze.

Aldmere raised his chin.  “Absolutely.”

After a moment, the other man nodded and moved on.

Aldmere dropped the tulips on the seat beside him.  His mind moved awhirl, but one by one he plucked the relevant pieces from the circling storm.  Out of the whirlwind of the last few hours a picture was forming.  To his great dismay, it looked to be far larger and more dangerous than any of them might have imagined.

* * *

The skiff vibrated under her feet as the waterman pulled close to the Hungerford Stairs.  Brynne examined the area closely as they approached, but there was nothing to see in the narrow strip between the water and the crumbling, crowding houses, save for an ancient, abandoned boat and a few boys huddled at the top of the stairs.  

That hadn’t been the case when she’d left the house at Craven Street this morning, her market basket clutched tightly as a safeguard.  She’d immediately noticed the man lounging in the servant’s stairwell across the street. 

Completely nondescript, dressed in ordinary workman’s clothes, he could have been any sort of laborer or deliveryman.  He didn’t look menacing or do anything that might be construed as threatening.  But he was so obviously
not
looking at her, and he pushed away from the wall as she entered the street and turned toward the Strand at the same time as she did. 

Perhaps all the excitement had begun to affect her, or perhaps Hatch’s mad ramblings were making her paranoid.  Whatever the reason, her instincts had twitched violently.  She’d listened, too.  Turning on her heel, she’d walked quickly down towards the river and turned in the opposite direction from the designated meeting spot.  Her pulse had raced, keeping time with her swiftly moving feet as she’d walked all the way to Whitehall, where she’d hailed a skiff to take her back to Hungerford.  She could have been wrong, but she’d thought she’d glimpsed the same man watching from the bank as her boat moved into the current and picked up speed.

Now she stepped carefully as she climbed the stairs, passed the gate and emerged into the market between a stack of crated lemons and a farm cart full of early greens.  A woman brushed by her, burdened with a heavy basket.  Brynne stepped aside and let her gaze roam over the market area, looking for Aldmere.

There.  The duke sat atop a splendid, shining rig.  He’d removed his hat and his thick hair outshone even the brushed coats of his matched bays.  She set out toward him.  Something to be wary of, perhaps, was the weight of anxiety that she left behind with every step that drew her closer.

His look didn’t match her lightening mood.  She saw, as she approached, that his face had collected into a ferocious frown.

He spotted her and nudged his team into a walk, moving to meet her.  “Come up,” he said, drawing alongside her.  “Quickly.”  Instead of descending, he reached a hand toward her.

She hesitated, but his handsome countenance resonated with both urgency and encouragement.  She hooked her basket over her elbow, took his hand and gasped when he hauled her aboard with all the ceremony one would show a sack of coal.

She froze a moment, though, balancing precariously, when she saw a huge bouquet of pink tulips lying across the bench.  “You brought me flowers?” she asked with disapproval.

“No.”  His mouth quirked as he gathered them up and thrust them at her without ceremony.  “Although I suppose they are yours now.”

His ungraciousness soothed her anxiety.  She relaxed as she gingerly accepted them, thrusting them into her basket and taking her seat next to him. 

“I’ll explain in a moment,” he said, scanning the area through which she’d just walked.  “But things just became a bit more complicated.  Is it possible that you were followed?”

Her heart jumped in her chest.  “It’s possible.  There was a man watching the house, I thought.  So I wandered a bit and then came back by the river.”

“Good thinking.  Now hold on.  I’m going to get us out of the city as quickly as possible.  My driving might be a bit . . .” He trailed off as he deftly maneuvered his team around a sharp turn and eased them between a hack and a cooper’s cart.

“Erratic?” she asked, gripping the seat tight with both hands.

“Creative,” he countered with a quick grin.

She sat back, holding her silence as he drove, while sunlight sparkled off of windows and bits of harness in the street and off of the water that was never far away.  She sparkled too, bubbling inside with curiosity and excitement.  Danger loomed, tangible and real, she knew, but it felt so much easier to face with Aldmere at her side.  So large and capable, he was.  He shifted through the traffic with the ease of a jarvey, the length of his thigh pressing repeatedly against hers. 

And for some inexplicable reason, she thought of her mother.  Of how differently the course of her life might have gone, had her mother lived.  She might have had a normal Season, met the duke under vastly different circumstances.  Perhaps they might have driven out together for pleasure instead of in pursuit of a missing nobleman and a List that labeled her a whore and threatened to steal her prospects.

“Three carriages back,” he said abruptly.  They were following traffic onto the Westminster Bridge.  “A carriage, pulled by a grey and a black.  I’m not sure, but I think it’s been keeping pace with us.  Watch it, will you?”  He eyed her askance.  “But without being obvious about it?  Act natural.”

“Natural?  Look about you, Aldmere.  This isn’t Hyde Park.  I don’t see any other young couples in open vehicles.”

“It cannot be that unusual. Surely there’s something ahead,” he gestured ahead, to the opposite bank.  “Some shopping to be had.  Ah—there’s a silversmith’s.  Perhaps we are a young, newly married couple, come to furnish our house.”

She laughed.  “I give fair warning then.  If we are forced to stop and masquerade then I will be ordering the gaudiest silver pattern available.  And lots of it.”