Anne Stuart (6 page)

Four

It was a compact house in Clarges Street, but more than ample for a man of Alistair MacAlpin’s elegant tastes. He entertained in small numbers, usually other bachelors, merely for the sake of gaming. The public rooms were not overlarge but well appointed, the bedroom sybaritic and sufficient for his habits. He was seldom called upon to offer hospitality—his family was dead, and few of his friends were in the habit of drinking so deeply that they couldn’t find their way home at the end of an evening.

He cherished his solitude and his little house. He’d moved from cramped, drafty rooms near St. Paul’s, and if his
pied-a-terre
held no resemblance to the lost splendor of MacAlpin House, he didn’t mind. MacAlpin House had never been his—his brother had inherited it, along with everything else, and had died there, poisoned by drink and despair. It now belonged to a nabob’s family, suitably renamed, and Alistair told himself he’d even forgotten its direction.

His current abode had cost the worth of Miss Edgerstone’s jewels, plus the proceeds of a rather nice collection of yellow diamonds he’d liberated from the Earl of Pemberton’s extremely nasty wife. The money had lasted a surprising amount of time, augmented by his habitual luck at the gaming tables, and it was boredom rather than necessity that had sent the Cat on the prowl again.

It was late afternoon of the following day, and he sat in front
of a fire, staring into it thoughtfully, an unusual occurrence for him. He’d been a moody child, and it had availed him nothing, not a father’s attention nor a brother’s time. Self-pity was an annoying waste, and he’d learned to eschew it, but this late autumn day he was melancholy, when he should have been elated at the stash of ugly stones secreted upstairs where no one would ever find them. And he knew exactly who to blame.

The mysterious Miss Brown, who’d vanished without a trace, leaving him with no alternative but to possess himself in patience, had had a most unsettling effect on his usual indolence. She would reappear again, he made no doubt. He’d sent enough lures Isolde’s way to assure himself of that. But he’d never been a particularly patient man, and he wanted to see her eyes again, to discover whether they were really as eerily translucent as he remembered. And whether she could take her strange cards and tell his fortune as well.

“
Personage to see you, my lord,” his manservant announced in that tone of voice reserved for Nicodemus Bottom. Malkin disapproved of Nicodemus, as any right-thinking servant would, but he dutifully turned a blind eye and a deaf ear to Alistair’s business dealings. Alistair had little doubt that Malkin knew exactly what business he conducted with a sinister-looking little man like Nicodemus, but he managed to hide his disapproval valiantly.

Indeed, it was often hard for Alistair to suppress a shudder, more at the strange and disconcerting odor that often accompanied his accomplice than the peculiar appearance. Nicodemus had once been a chimney sweep, and his feet and hands still bore the scars and doubtless some of the soot he’d collected years earlier. He was a small man with a ferret face, a random selection of dark teeth, gaudy taste in clothing, and an intense dislike of bathing. He also knew how to dispense with stolen diamonds to their best advantage, and if Alistair hadn’t had
the dubious fortune of catching Nicodemus Bottom’s hand in his pocket, a famous alliance might never had come about, and his first night’s proceeds might still be sitting, untouched, in his old rooms.

“
You work fast,” Alistair said lazily, careful not to breathe too deeply. “I didn’t know you were so eager.”

“
I figgered you were about due for a little exercise, yer worship,” Nicodemus said. “But I’m not in that much of a hurry for the sparklers. Haven’t made arrangements yet, so they can sit pretty for the time being.”

“
Not that I don’t delight in your company, dear friend, but if you haven’t come for the jewels, why are you here?” he asked, still giving him only half his attention.

“
I came to warn you.”

Alistair lifted his eyes lazily. “About what, pray tell?”

“
The runners are after you.”

“
That’s hardly a surprise. I haven’t been concerned before—I see no reason to be concerned now.”

“
That’s because Sir John hadn’t put his best men on to you. Brennan’s bad enough—he looks like he’s half asleep, but that man’s as sharp as a needle. But it’s Clegg you need to keep your eyes peeled for.”

“
Clegg?”

“
Josiah Clegg. He’s always been a bad ‘un, and most of us does our best to steer clear of him. He makes more money informing on runaway apprentices than bothering with the more dangerous types.”

“
Then I shouldn’t have to worry. Considering I’m one of the more dangerous types,” Alistair murmured.

“
Word has it that he’s got a little extra help. Sort of an unfair advantage, if you know what I mean.”

“
Explain yourself,” Alistair suggested.

“
He’s got some woman to help him.”

“
I doubt I’d be likely to bare all my secrets to some creature allied to a Bow Street runner.”

“
You won’t have to. She’s part witch, they say. She uses dark powers to help Clegg, in return for money. Reads these funny-looking cards and then tells Clegg where to find things. Gives me the creeps, it does, just thinking about it.”

Alistair was startled enough to move closer to Nicodemus, an act he immediately regretted. “Who is she?” he demanded. “What does she look like?”

“
Ah, so now you’re interested in what old Nic has to say,” the man said smugly. “Don’t know as many people have seen her. She keeps low, she does. Someone thought she was French. One of them Huguenots.”

Alistair had schooled himself to keep all expression from his face. The mesmerizing creature from the previous night had been no more French than he was. “And this French woman proposes a danger to me with her cards and magic tricks? Somehow I doubt it.”

“
Jim Stebbins didn’t think he had nothing to worry about till Clegg came calling. Knew exactly where he’d buried his wife, and brother as well, and no one knew but Jim.”

Alistair allowed himself a faint shudder. “I hardly think I’d be as interesting as a man who slaughters his family.”

“
That’s where you’re wrong, guv’nor. The moiety on you is much higher.”

“
Moiety?”

“
Thief-taker’s share. You’re worth a lot, yer honor.”

“
How gratifying. Then why don’t you turn me in?”

Nicodemus’s grin would have daunted a less hardy soul. “I’ve been tempted, yer worship. Fact of the matter is, though, people who inform to Clegg have a bad habit of disappearing before they can claim their share of the reward. And I reasons that you’re worth more to me while you’re actively pursuing
your interests, so to speak.”

“
So to speak,” Alistair echoed, amused. “What about Clegg’s young woman? Why does he allow her to live?”

“
I imagine she’ll outlive her usefulness as well. Pretty girl, from what I’ve heard. She has strange eyes.”

Alistair jerked. “I thought you said no one had seen her?”

“
You must have misheard me, guv. I said not many have seen her. I happen to be one of the few.”

“
I could strangle you,” Alistair said musingly. “If I could bear to get that close to you...”

“
Why are you so interested in her, yer worship?”

“
Shouldn’t I be interested in someone who poses a threat to my well-being?” he countered.

“
But you don’t give a damn about Clegg.”

“
True enough,” Alistair admitted. “I was ever a fanciful creature, Nicodemus. I’m far more interested in beautiful young witches with strange eyes than Bow Street runners. Where do I find this mysterious woman?”

“
Normally I charge for such information. However, in your case...”

“
In my case you’ll tell me before I drag it out of you,” he said in a pleasant voice.

“
Where else would you find Frenchwomen but Spitalfields? I followed her one night after she met with Clegg. Secretive little thing, she was. Crept in the back door like a servant, but the people who live in those houses can’t afford servants. ‘S’matter of fact, maybe that’s why I thought she was French. I never heard her speak, but that’s where all the emigres live, so I just assumed she was one of them.”

“
Perhaps,” Alistair murmured. “And perhaps her dark talents have absolutely nothing to do with me and a great deal to do with the fact that your friend Mr. Clegg has to pay for his pleasures.”

“
Mebbe,” Nicodemus allowed. “But she didn’t look like no piece of muslin. And Clegg wouldn’t have to pay—he’s got half of Covent Garden terrified of him. Most doxies would be happy to lift their skirts for free if he left them alone. Besides, she didn’t look like a doxy, despite them strange eyes. Dressed very neat and soberlike.” He squinted at Alistair doubtfully. “What are you doing?”

Alistair had already stripped off his velvet dressing gown. “Preparing for an evening stroll. Spitalfields sounds like a fascinating section of town. Care to join me, Nicodemus?”

“
Do I have a choice, yer worship?” he grumbled.

“
Not much. Besides, I may need you to protect me from wandering Mohocks and the like.”

Nicodemus Bottom smirked. “Not likely. You’re a man who can take care of himself. But I’ll show you where the girl lives, if that’s what you have in mind.”

“
That’s what I have in mind, Nicodemus,” Alistair said gently. And he drained his brandy and headed for the door.

Alistair had a strange passing fondness for London at night, even the rudest sections. The modest little building that Nicodemus assured him contained the elusive Miss Brown was no different from any of the other small, cramped quarters that housed the majority of the vast city’s French Protestant population. With one interesting difference.

He and Nicodemus were not alone in their perusal of the building. Two other men were just as interested.

He had cat’s eyes—he could see in the dark, and he was almost preternaturally observant. In his chosen line of work he had no choice but to be unnaturally watchful. One man stood on the far corner, blending in with the shadows, but Alistair could discern an ample height, a large, loose-knit body, and eyes almost as observant as his own.

However, that watcher’s eyes were focused on the building, and he seemed unaware that he was not alone that chill autumn night.

The other man walked slowly by, seemingly caught up in his own concerns, but Nicodemus’s swift hiss of indrawn breath disabused Alistair of the notion that this might be a casual passerby. “Clegg,” Bottom whispered. “What the hell is he doing around here?”

“
I thought you said she worked with him?” Alistair responded in a hushed voice.

“
Not at night, I wouldn’t think. Not so’s her family might know. He must be keeping watch on her. Most like he doesn’t trust her. But then, Clegg doesn’t trust anyone.”

“
The man shows some wisdom.”

“
He’s smart as a whip, more’s the pity,” Nicodemus muttered. “That’s what makes him so dangerous. You watch out, yer worship. Take a close look at the likes of him. He’ll be your downfall if he can manage it.”

“
And what about the other man?”

“
What other man?” Nicodemus demanded.

Alistair glanced back to the shadowy corner, but the large man had disappeared, fading back into the shadows. “He’s gone,” he said abruptly.

“
You’re seeing things, gov’nor. Best concentrate on the danger at hand, and not start looking for ghosts in the shadows.”

He looked back at the building. An occasional female figure passed by a dimly lit window, but he was unable to discern whether or not it was Miss Brown. Not that he had any real doubt. How many ladylike card readers with strange eyes could there be in London? The fact that she worked for his natural enemy only made the temptation more delightful. “I don’t suppose you know her name, do you?”

“
I can make it my business to find out. I’ll have to be careful though—I don’t want Clegg knowing I’m interested. I don’t want Clegg to even remember my existence.”

“
Find out for me, Nicodemus,” he said, still intent on the window. “And I’ll double your share of last night’s work.”

“
You’re a good man, haven’t I always said so?” Nicodemus demanded of the night.

“
An absolute paragon of virtues,” Alistair murmured, faintly amused, still staring at the small house. “If you say so, old son. If you say so.”

“
You’re quite the talk of society, my dear,” Lady Plumworthy cooed from across a plate of tiny cakes. It was late afterno6n the next day, and Jessamine hadn’t eaten since early that morning, and the porridge had been thin and tasteless at that.

It had been months since she’d had a truly decent cup of tea served in fine bone china. She hadn’t realized how very much she missed the small elegancies of life. She’d trained herself to concentrate on more important matters, such as life and death, yet there she was, seduced by an elegant cup of tea. “Am I?” she murmured in polite response, managing not to devour the cake in one gulp.

“
It appears that your readings were amazingly accurate. I’ve had all manner of notes and visits, with people inquiring about you and regaling me with tales of the veracity of your forecasts. Of course, some say you’re a witch, but fortunately we no longer burn witches in England.” Lady Plumworthy’s honk of laughter would have been unnerving, but Jessamine didn’t even blink.