Almost a Gentleman (20 page)

But meanwhile, Billy and the other boys from Mr. Talbot's might know a great deal of useful information about the gentlemen she and David were investigating. Lord Crashaw, after all, was a regular customer. How foolish she'd been, she thought, never to have asked if Crashaw or anyone else had made any incriminating remarks about Phizz Marston.

David and I would be fools, she thought, not to avail ourselves of such valuable information.

A little creativity, she told herself, a little spontaneous improvisation was what was needed right now. And David wouldn't mind—he'd applaud her independence just as he'd gloried in her sexual forthrightness. Imbued with a new sense of purpose, she recommenced her brisk pace toward Brunswick Square.

Of course what he
might
mind, a small solemn voice at the back of her mind whispered, was that she had lied to him when recounting the short list of people who knew about her masquerade. Well, she hadn't exactly
lied
—she'd merely failed to mention Mr. Talbot. Mr. Talbot and Billy. And since neither of them knew her real identity, they didn't really count, did they?

Well, maybe they counted in a small way. For both of them certainly knew that she was a woman. To put an absolutely rigorous face on things, Phoebe supposed that one would probably have to say that she'd committed a small sin of omission by not disclosing these facts to David.

But a small sin of omission certainly didn't count as a lie, did it?

All right, so it
was
a lie. And a perilous one to boot: she'd misled David as to the danger of the situation. Phoebe knew very well how risky it had been to tell Mr. Talbot her secret. Because among the small group of people who knew that Marston was a woman, Mr. Talbot—sexual procurer to the
Beau Monde
—was the only one not committed to her by bonds of love or friendship or family.

She'd convinced herself that she was safe enough. Wasn't it true, after all, that Talbot would soon lose all his custom if he became known as a tittle-tattle? But the fear had never quite left her. Deep within herself she knew that she'd struck an expensive bargain.

She'd insisted upon living as a man instead of simply masquerading as one. She'd resolved to have a man's sexual knowledge and freedom, to exercise a man's right to sexual pleasure. She'd never regretted the devil's bargain she'd made; the excitement of living as Marston had been built on a foundation of risk.

And since she'd risked no one's safety but her own (For she'd already lost Bryan—but she wouldn't think of that now! Not now and not ever!), she'd felt herself fairly entitled to the excitement.

She wouldn't worry, she told herself. Her little lapse couldn't endanger so responsible, so invulnerable, a gentleman as the earl of Linseley. He'd taken her on just as he'd taken on the destinies of half the farm laborers of Lincolnshire. Cautious and deliberate, he was the sort of man one trusted to deal with the affairs of a nation. One would readily hand over one's fortunes for his disposing. As readily—as eagerly, as passionately—as Phoebe would hand over herself to his body's desires.

Still, Phoebe reminded herself, he'd have to remain ignorant of Billy—and of the course of sexual self-instruction she'd allowed herself. Necessary as the episode had been for
her
, there was a limit to what a decent gentleman was capable of understanding.

She'd find out whatever Billy knew about Raikes, Crashaw, and Smythe-Cochrane. She'd share the information with David and never tell him how she'd learned it. Together, they'd solve the mystery of her vicious adversary. And then they'd be free to explore life's more important mysteries—the mysteries of a man and woman who wanted each other so wholly and joyously.

He'd visit her late at night. She'd run up the stairs, flushed from winning at gambling, and there he'd be, ready to tear off her gentleman's clothes and find the woman hidden underneath. And sometimes she'd steal away from London, stop at Mrs. Grainger's to change into her pink gown, and wait at sunset for him to ride up to the gate.

You're very beautiful in pink, Mr. Marston.

Oh yes. With such a lover, her life as Marston would be beautiful indeed.

She shivered—with cold or with desire?—and hastened her steps. Billy wasn't due until Saturday. But she'd pen the note to Talbot as soon as she got home, asking if she could have Billy tomorrow instead. She'd post it first thing in the morning.

She'd been walking by fits and starts—sometimes stopping for minutes at a time to stare at nothing—and obliging a freezing, miserable Archie Stokes to blow silently into his hands and stamp his feet, hidden as he was in shadows and doorways. Didn't she notice the cold? he wondered.

He'd kept the guv'nor's card safe in his pocket after setting off after Marston in the Lake District. It would be good sport to report on finding him, he thought—and who knew, maybe Linseley would even make good on the promise of boxing lessons. Of course, he never
had
found the man in question—not that it
had
been a man: the guv'nor had explained it all patiently when Stokes had screwed up his courage to visit him anyway. Bunbury had shouted at him and called him stupid, but the earl wasn't that sort of man. They'd had a good laugh and a mouthful of ale together over it and Stokes had been hired to follow Marston—well, to follow the young lady as it turned out—and make sure she was safe.

Not that it wasn't still a queer business, the guv'nor being so obviously smitten with her. And—Stokes shook his head—just as obviously ignorant about the pretty blond boy who came so regularly.

Of course the boy
could
just be some friend of the family. Well, there was
some
who might believe that, he supposed, but not Archie Stokes. Still, he'd never tattle and break a man's heart over it.

Maybe she'd see reason and the visits would stop of their own accord. Maybe she'd tire of the boy. Stokes hoped so. For he'd developed a strong measure of devotion to his employer: Lord Linseley had been decent with him, the work was steady, the pay excellent. And the weekly boxing lessons had been a revelation. Amazing what you could do if you had both size and strategy, he thought. And wonderful that he'd finally met someone who wasn't too intimidated by his size to take him on and teach him a thing or two.

A shame, though, that he hadn't yet been able to put the lessons to use. The guv'nor had said the lady was in danger, but Stokes hadn't noticed anybody on her trail. Maybe he'd scared them away, he comforted himself. Well, he'd just have to be patient. Certainly he'd done a professional job so far, keeping her safe in the cold, wet, dark streets she liked to frequent.

And was she finally hurrying home like a sensible girl? Yeh, it certainly seemed that way. And high time too. Still, she'd soon be tucked into her bed, and after a mouthful of hot rum and water to wash away the night's chill, so would Stokes himself.

Mr. Hugh Smythe-Cochrane leaned voluptuously back in his chair, patting his bright brocaded waistcoat with a puffy, manicured hand. A few crumbs of a very fine apple tart glistened at the corner of his mouth; the wreckage of a formal dinner lay in front of him on the table.

"Snuff?" David passed him a small enameled box.

"Thanks, Linseley, don't mind if I do."

Smythe-Gochrane's teeth were large and brown, and his breath hadn't been the sweetest even before he'd tucked away the splendid meal David's cook had produced.

"A fine roast." The gentleman evidently imagined himself an authority on culinary matters. "An excellent aspic for the salmon. The sweet—what do the French call it? A
tarte
.. .
tart… tarte tartan
, isn't it? And the claret… One doesn't often taste such a claret nowadays."

David maintained a sober demeanor, though it was hard not to smile at the notion of an apple dessert decked out in Scottish plaid. "It's my last bottle. My circumstances, you know… reduced to the very devil these days."

"Marston
is
the very devil. It's a scandal that he's such a pet of the Polite World. Rather like that young Disraeli boy who's suddenly invited everywhere—the lack of standards these days is shocking. But even if Marston is no Hebrew, you were stupid to go up against him."

"Yes, rather." David inclined his head thoughtfully. Good work, the man bringing up Marston of his own accord, even as he flaunted some other unpleasant prejudices.

Smythe-Cochrane's muddy brown eyes seemed to redden, though perhaps that was just the effect of the snuff. "Young puppy ought to be horsewhipped. Publicly."

"Hmmm. I'd like to hear more of your thoughts on the matter. What would you say to our finishing the claret in the drawing room?"

"Excellent, excellent."

David led him to a large armchair and watched him spread himself in front of the fire like a spaniel. The gentleman certainly liked his creature comforts.

But one wouldn't want him dozing off. As David poked the embers and nudged the biggest log into a better position, the fire sent up a fine blaze of sparks.

"I try, you see, to maintain certain standards of hospitality, even if Marston has put rather a crimp in my style."

Smythe-Cochrane nodded, lost in private reverie.

"You proposed a public horsewhipping for him, Mr. Smythe-Cochrane?" David's voice was low, insistent.

The log caught fire. Smythe-Cochrane emitted a coarse chuckle.

"A private one would be better. Trap him when he's out on one of those mysterious jaunts of his. Surround him and drag him to some old, abandoned building. Get two big toughs to hold him down and bend him over a splintery table. Pull down those trousers and allow every gentleman he's insulted to get a whack at that pretty arse. Until he bleeds. And cries for forgiveness."

Another chuckle. Followed by what sounded like a deep sigh of contentment.

Peering over the edge of his glass, David stared pensively at the flames reflected in his guest's eyes.

"We'd make him crawl. Apologize to each of us in turn, on his knees. Lick our boot toes until his tongue is raw." These last pretty sentiments were delivered in a hoarse whisper.

"You've given the matter some thought," David said.

"Oh, I'm not the only one. Raikes and I had it all planned out. One could never organize the whole crowd scene, you know, though one likes to imagine it.

"But we could do it, just the two of us, we thought. So we hired the toughs and set out to follow him. Lovely day last spring—April, still a bit chilly, just enough to get the blood up. We'd intended to leave him in a ditch, shivering without those elegant trousers of his. We followed him to Rowen-on-Close, where he boarded for the night. And damned if he hadn't simply disappeared into thin air the next morning."