The Love List (33 page)

The marquess stood.  “Enough of this.  Do you think me a fool?  I am one of the greatest players to ever enter into the sport.  I hold the fate of kings and princes in my hand.  I move men far greater than you at will.  Do you think that I haven’t had you watched?  Do you think that I don’t know you failed to reach anyone higher than a London magistrate today?  That I haven’t discovered that the List spent the greater part of the day in Hestia’s foul bawdy house?  I don’t care if that great whore made a hundred copies—they are copies only. 
This
is the only copy that can do me harm and it’s mine now.”

“The story that I have to tell could do a damned good bit of damage,” Aldmere bit out.

“You have the makings of a fine player, your Grace.”  Marstoke shook his head.  “But you are inexperienced, yet.  I admit you were savvy enough to sidestep some of the more obvious false moves that you might have made.   You’ve even shown a stroke or two of brilliance.  But you have revealed a disappointing bit of sentiment.  You’ve allowed your brother to become a weakness.”

Aldmere straightened, his hand lingering on the shelf that held the urn.  “He’ll be noted as your weakness, should you not produce him.  Now.”

The marquess made tutting noises at him.  “Don’t fret.  You shall have him, as you have lived up to your end of the bargain.”  He stilled.  “But there are conditions.”

“The hell you say.  There’s been no mention of conditions.”

“Nevertheless.  You are no fool, your Grace.  You’ve caught at least a glimpse of the larger picture.  You have an inkling of what is to happen in the next months.  Surely you see that I cannot write a script like this without a villain.  Someone must play the dastard and take the blame.  Your brother will do nicely for a start.”

Aldmere shook his head, incredulous.  “Your confidence is as enormous as your ego, but sadly misplaced.  What makes you think I will stand by and allow you to ruin my brother?”

The man shrugged.  “Lord Truitt is ruined already.  Alone, the last months he’s spent amongst the wrack and rabble might not have caused him permanent damage, but with the publication of the List, he’ll be named a traitor.”

“As will you, damn you, once I’ve finished filling the ears of every government official and society nob in London.  And I’ve plenty of witnesses to lend credence to this sorry tale.”

“Who?  The printer?  I believe you’ve already discovered the futility of that hope.  Perhaps you think of the poor little Russian girl?  She’s already set sail for home, ahead of the rest of her delegation.  I believe that leaves you with children, pimps and whores to back you, your Grace.  It will come down to your word against mine.”  He tapped the List.  “And I’ll have physical evidence, in your brother’s own hand, once I make sure it is missing a few key pages, of course.”

“Ah, but is now the time you wish to undergo that sort of scrutiny?”  Aldmere raised a brow.  “Anyone who knows you will recognize the ring of truth to my accusations.  How far do you think your plans will go if you are the focus of such attention?”

The marquess lifted a shoulder.  “It’s true, you might cause a delay.  But that is all I will endure, while you will watch your brother suffer a traitor’s death.  He’ll be imprisoned.  Hanged.”  He pursed his lips.  “No, I believe you shall do exactly as I say.  You shall take your brother and do as you have so kindly suggested to me.  Get him to a port city and out of the country as fast as you can.” 

Aldmere cursed the man’s confidence as the marquess took his seat once again.  “I’m afraid I’m holding all the high cards, here.  You’d be a fool not to take the chance I’ve given you.”  He smoothed his cuff, then met Aldmere’s gaze with one as cold and still as death.  “What say you, your Grace?”

* * *

Her cloak thrown on over her half-buttoned gown, Brynne slipped silently out of Aldmere’s house.  Was that a cry she heard as she let the door close behind her?  She didn’t intend to stop to be sure.  She ran lightly down the stairs, then flew along the quiet streets of the square.  She didn’t slow until she reached Pall Mall, and within moments she found a hackney.

Pulling to a stop, the driver looked her over and asked to see her money up front.  Impatient, she tossed him a coin and bade him to take her to St. George’s at Hanover Square—just the smallest distance away from Marstoke’s home. 

The streets were more crowded than usual.  People moved about in groups and a celebratory atmosphere seemed to have overtaken the city.  The delay left plenty of time for doubt and insecurity to beset Brynne, but she refused to entertain them.  Now was the best time to invade Marstoke House.  Now, when she knew without a doubt that the marquess would be occupied elsewhere.  While Marstoke was busy trying to pry the List from Aldmere, she would be digging up something else to use as evidence against him.

Mere minutes passed before the carriage creaked to a halt.  She climbed down unassisted.  With a jaunty salute of his crop, the jarvey pulled away—and Brynne’s heart nearly stopped as a nimble figure jumped from the back of the hack down to the pavement beside her.

“Heaven and earth!” she gasped.  Clutching her cloak tight, she glared at the girl grinning up at her.  “Francis!  What are you doing?”

“Tailin’ ye,” the urchin answered casually.

Brynne frowned.  “Did Hatch send you?”

“No.”  The grin faded.  “I sent myself.  Things are stirrin’ tonight and I figgered ye’d be in the thick of it—and in need of some ’elp.”  She crossed her arms.  “And weren’t I right?  Ye don’t even know I’m not the only one trailin’ behind ye.”

“What?”  Brynne gripped the child’s hand and looked up and down the street.  “Who else is following?”

“Tall bloke, but that’s all I got ter see.  He followed ye from yer duke’s house and took a hack after ye.”  She gestured back towards Conduit Street.  “I watched from the back of yers and he followed all the way ’ere.  He should be ’bout ready ter come ’round the corner.”

Brynne pulled the girl quickly up the stone steps of the cathedral and into a shallow corner behind the grand columns.  “Marstoke’s man?” she muttered.  “If so, he’ll never let me near the house.”

Francis shrugged.  “Not sure ye’d want ter go in, anyways.  I seen the girls what go in, and how they look comin’ out, too.”

“I’m going,” Brynne declared.  “Now, while Marstoke is away.”  She sighed.  “See if you can identify the hackney going by.  If we stay ducked in here a bit, he might lose us and keep going.”  A sudden thought occurred to her and she pulled her cloak aside and huddled down in the corner.  “While we are waiting, help me, please, Francis.  I’ve much to accomplish tonight and don’t fancy doing any of it half dressed.”

The child’s small fingers made quick work of the buttons.  Brynne tried not to cringe at the irony of it all.  Could the girl at the Dalton’s ball, the innocent she used to be, have imagined huddling here in the portico of the church she might have been married in, being buttoned into a borrowed dress?

“There ’e goes,” Francis said calmly. “I seen ’is driver wi’ that red scarf at ’is neck.”  She skipped up and, hugging a column, peered around it.  “No good,” she said. “The toff’s stopped and climbed down at the end of the street.”

“Blocking my way to the house, blast him,” Brynne swore.  “But perhaps I can go around the back?  Enter through the servant’s entrance?”

“
Cor
, ain’t no one more hoity than a toff, ’less’n it’s his servants.  Too hard to make it past that mob.  Front door’s only got one servant, and a man at that.”  The child gestured toward her cloak.  “Throw that back and make use o’ what God gave ye.”

Brynne closed her eyes and bit her tongue.  “Can you still see him?” she asked.  “If he doesn’t tarry long, then this may still work.”

“’E’s standin’ on the corner, lyin’ in wait.  I can lure ’im off, quick-like.  Done it a dozen times, at least.  And he had to see me ’anging off the back o’ yer hack.”

“No!”  Brynne vetoed quickly.  “I don’t want you in harm’s way.”

But the frustrating child had already skipped down the steps and melted into the foot traffic.  Brynne cursed and followed helplessly as Francis crossed the street and made her way towards the wider open space at the start of Hanover Square, but the girl weaved in and out amongst the people in a way that she couldn’t duplicate.  Brynne kept to the edge near the street and just managed to catch sight of Francis as she maneuvered her way to the corner and lingered out in full view.

She didn’t hear the shout, but Brynne saw Francis come to attention.  The child watched as a tall man detached himself from the crowd at the opposite corner.  A carter cursed and pulled to the side as the man jumped off the pavement, dodging traffic, and started across the street.  Brynne dashed out onto the busy street, hoping to make better speed, but with a small smile, the girl faded into the crowd.  The gentleman pushed his way after her, attempting to follow.

By the time Brynne reached the corner, they had both disappeared.  She stood, frustrated and indecisive, turning first on one foot and then the other.  In the end, she decided that Francis had more experience than she did.  She squared her shoulders, determined to take the chance that the child had bought her.

Traffic eased as soon as she entered the wider streets of the Square proper.  She knew Marstoke’s house.  She and her father had visited there.  Pulling her cloak tight, she walked boldly up to the same mansion where she’d once been meant to become mistress.

The footman who answered showed a moment’s surprise at the sight of the bedraggled woman on his front stoop, then gathered himself and looked right through her.  “I’m afraid there’s been a mistake,” he said woodenly.

Relieved that he only saw the woman she was pretending to be, she put out a hand to stop the closing door and looked up and around at the impressive house.  “Marstoke House, isn’t it?” She let just a hint of Francis’s East End accent to color her words.  “Well?”

He nodded.

“Then there’s no mistake.  I’ve been ordered here.”

He gaped at her.  “Ordered?”

“Aye, ordered.”  She heaved a sigh.  “You look to be a fine, handsome man.  Smart, too, to be trusted in such an important position.”

He stood a little straighter.

“I’ll wager you know what it is to have tired feet at the end of a long day.” She let a tinge of weariness creep into her voice as she shifted her stance.  “It’s a long way over here and mine are aching something terrible.”  She sighed and bent over.  Despite himself, the footman watched with interest while she rustled with her skirts and reached into the pocket sewed into the bottom of her shift. 

She straightened.  “All I know is I’m to be waiting for his lordship when he arrives home, in a certain brown leather chair before the fire in his study.”  She held up a coiled leather strap and black, silken mask.  “And I’m to have these with me.”

The footman flushed a deep, rich red.

“What’s your name, sir?” She smiled at him, lacing it with camaraderie and a hint of fire. 

“Robert,” he whispered.

“Well, Robert, I’ve never met his lordship, but I heard an earful.  I’m sure I’d not wish to be the one to explain why I’m not in the spot I was meant to be in.”  She leaned in.  “Is that what you wish?”

His color drained away.  “No.”  He opened the door.  “Come in then.  But you are not to leave the study.”

She raised a saucy brow.  “Believe me, Robert, I’ve no wish to do anything but rest and gather my strength while I’ve got the chance.”

He flushed again as he bent to take up a candle.  She chuckled, good-natured and low, as she followed him towards the back of the house.  He pushed open the ornate door and entered ahead of her to light a lamp on the desk.

Brynne paused and looked around admiringly, as if unfamiliar with the room.  “This is fine, isn’t it?” she asked.  She crossed to the afore-mentioned chair and slid a hand across the high top.  “Ah, here we are.”

Robert retreated.  “I’ll be watching,” he warned.

She leaned on the chair and winked at him from across the room.  “Give a listen later and I’ll warrant you’ll get something out of it.”  She grinned.  “But only if you have a pretty little housemaid to help you proper.”

The door closed with a sharp click.  

Brynne crossed straight to the desk centered on the far wall.  She tossed her cloak back, over her shoulders, but kept it on.  She sat down, ran her fingers along the edge, feeling the significance of the moment.  Determination filled her, and fierce hope, as well as a thin knife’s edge of fear.  Holding her breath, she tried a drawer.

Unlocked.  Her heart sank.  Marstoke wasn’t a fool.  Still, the search had to be made.  She closed her eyes, sent out a silent plea for help, and began.

She left nothing unturned.  Ledgers, files, contracts, estate reports and foreign newspapers.  She even discovered the secret panel at the back of the center drawer.  It contained only a thick ring of many, various sized keys.  She took it out, replaced the panel and sat the heavy ring in the midst of the desk.

She stared at it, lost in thought.  An unlocked desk was too public, too accessible to contain anything incriminating.  But these keys, they opened up new possibilities. 

Marstoke lived a lie.  He had a benign public facade that had nothing to do with the evil that lurked in his soul.  He enjoyed the duality, the duplicity of it.  Why would it not carry over to this situation? 

It would be like him to have a secret place.  And while it could, of course, be anywhere—in the city or even on one of his estates—Brynne didn’t believe so.  It would please him to have it here, a dark hole under a glittering surface, a hideaway from which he could chart his evil course, right under the noses of those he meant to harm.

She gazed about the study.  It had to be here, in the house.  But Marstoke’s greatest triumph would come if he could hide it right in this spot, almost in plain sight of where he did his normal business.

Brynne stood.  She paced the floor, taken with the idea of a secret staircase, but though she examined the place closely, even lifting the heavy edges of the carpets, she could find no seams or signs of a trapdoor.