For the Earl's Pleasure (12 page)

“Then you truly are leaving dressed in this? Miss, let me travel with you, at least.”

“Yes, Abigail, don’t be a goose.” Rainewood leaned against the four-poster pole, arms tightly crossed. “If you are going to be foolish, at least take your maid.”

“She needs to cover for me in case of Mother.”

“Your mother is asleep, miss,” Telly said quickly. “She was most distressed and took one of her pills. She won’t wake until the morning.”

And she won’t care anyway, except for your status as her ticket to society
.

“Why are you doing this, Smart?” Rainewood’s voice was low, questioning, shielded.

Abigail felt the urge to weep creep upon her again. Why was she? Rainewood had touched her,
looked
at her in that way, and she’d up and set upon this path. Thrown her lot in with him just like any other foolish society girl who thought she might have some chance with him
if only
.

Stupid, stupid.

He’d called her Abby.

She could ignore him. She could spill the entire tale to someone who might be able to help—if the person she chose weren’t the party responsible for his disappearance in the first place—and get a first-rate opera ticket to a sanitarium in thanks. Or even if they didn’t commit her right off the bat—or accuse her of doing in Rainewood herself—at the very minimum her mother would hear the story, and regardless of the ton’s off-and-on fascination with the paranormal, Abigail would be put under the doctor’s care again.

And she couldn’t allow that to happen. She had done everything to get away from him. She shuddered.

He’d called her Abby.

But going out into London on her own with a spirit as her lookout was folly. Taking her maid wasn’t much better. But at least she could have an extra pair of eyes and ears.

“Very well.” She ignored Rainewood’s question. “But you have to dress differently too, Telly.”

“Yes, miss.” She bobbed. “I will be back in a thrice.” She ran from the room.

Telly was true to her word, and she came back with a boy’s outfit (“my brother’s, miss, just like yours”), quickly donned it with help from Abigail (“couldn’t have anyone seeing me on the way”), then helped Abigail dress.

The trousers stretched between Abigail’s legs—an odd sensation as her skin rubbed against them from the inside. She pushed a leg forward and examined it.

“It’s a pair of common trousers, Smart, not the latest fashion from Paris.”

“They feel…strange. Clasping around my legs, hugging them almost.” She stood and took a step forward, holding on to the top of the trousers that Telly, who was rummaging through a bag, promised a rope would cinch. The lack of layers was disconcerting. “I feel naked.”

“You walk around in those dresses with nothing beneath. And now you feel naked?” Rainewood asked in disbelief.

“There is plenty beneath my dresses,” she said, irritated that her cheeks were hot thinking about him peering under her clothes every time she changed.

“Miss?” Telly looked anxious. “We should go before it gets too late. Unless you’ve changed your mind?” She asked hopefully.

“No, let’s go.”

They cleanly escaped from the house with the help of Rainewood acting as a lookout ahead of them. Abigail hailed a hack down the street and they were off, caps firmly in place to help shade their features and hide their hair. Telly had a bit of apoplexy when she heard the direction Abigail gave the driver, but Abigail ignored her pleas to turn back.

She already knew she shouldn’t be doing this. It was dangerous and stupid. She blamed the donkey and that
look
upon his features when he had said something about protecting her.

And he’d called her Abby.

Stupid man. Stupid thoughts.

The driver stopped down the street from the gaming hell. It was located in a shady section of town. Not completely beyond the pale, but also not like walking down Bond Street in the middle of the day either.

They exited the carriage and she chanced a look at Rainewood. Anticipation and perhaps a touch of unease graced his handsome, pale features. Telly paid the driver and the hack swayed away across the stones, clippity-clop.

Rainewood started walking, energy in his usually languid gait. Abigail followed, trying to keep her eyes averted and at the same time sharp to her surroundings. It was an exercise in futility. She decided that the risk of discovery was slightly less worrisome than being unaware of what was going on about her. Men of all shapes and sizes prowled the streets and walks engaging in all matters of side betting, copulating with hard-looking women in the unlit corners, and urinating in convenient places.

Abigail tried hard not to stare. This was the type of place that you couldn’t separate the spirits from the real folk. Everyone seemed to be dancing to their own tune of hedonism. She couldn’t believe Rainewood frequented this area.

She peeked in his direction—his bearing full of long lines and confidence. Not the wickedly humored but kind youth she had once known. Instead he was the ultimate man about town she had become used to.

Telly missed a step after they heard a particularly lusty moan from one of the women in a side alley. “Miss, you shouldn’t be here,” she whispered, her tone more insistent and edged with panic.

Abigail completely agreed, but decided against saying so to her maid, who would likely try to shuttle her off. Rainewood looked increasingly animated, and she wasn’t going to up and leave him.

He stopped suddenly at a small shallow corridor. “Stay here with your maid. I’ll come back to collect you.”

She put a hand out to stop him. His eyes locked with hers. Her hand fell through his after a long second. “Where are you going? You can’t leave without me.”

“We were attacked just around the corner. You will be far safer here tucked away.” He cast a glance in all directions. “Just pretend like you are having a debate or argument with each other.” The edges of his mouth curved. “Shouldn’t be too hard for you.”

“I—”

But he was gone.

Telly looked at her worriedly. “What is it, miss?”

“He said we should pretend to have a conversation and then left.”

Telly watched the people passing. “How long will we be here, miss?”

Abigail shook her head, feeling as if malevolent, watchful eyes surrounded them on all sides. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

Valerian couldn’t believe she had actually come to this section of town. Well, that wasn’t true. The girl he had known would do such a thing for him. The woman she had become wouldn’t dare. Not for him. Not after the way their paths had diverged.

He tried to repress the insidious thoughts of why those paths had split. If he opened that box, all sorts of Pandora’s curses would fly at him and deep down he knew he would be the loser. He tried to ignore the forbidden box completely, but it grew ever closer to the forefront of his mind each day he spent near her. Whatever world he was in was obviously not good for keeping hidden one’s desires.

And the desire to make amends with Abigail was becoming stronger each day. Each second. To go back to the way things were before girls were women and boys were men.

No, he shook his head as he rounded the corner and passed through a man in a top hat. That wasn’t true. It was a deeper desire forming—one that had always been lurking around the edges those last few summers together. A feeling that had frightened him with its intensity so long ago. To have her. To become more than friendly allies with Abigail.

And then Thornton had passed and everything had changed. Everything.

He pressed his lips together as he neared the hell. It was useless dwelling on the past. He wasn’t even in full control of his present—his body somewhere far less safe than the den of iniquity he neared. And when he regained his life he was fully expected to marry Celeste Malcolm—or someone of equal standing. Everyone expected it. He was the heir. His father, so removed from his life until Thornton had passed, was becoming increasingly demanding on the subject.

Diddling with Abigail Smart was not the proper or wise thing to do. In any way, shape, or form. No matter what his body said, what his hands tended to do—touching her in a taunting manner, pretending that it was just to unnerve her rather than to satisfy some overwhelming urge within him.

No, better to concentrate on the task at hand-getting back to his body—and to forget the side pleasures that he might find with Abigail.

He grit his teeth. Easier to swim upstream of the waterfall than to forget.

A group of young men emerged from the hell, chattering and swaying drunkenly. Stupid not to have at least one man in control. Not that it had helped him, he thought in disgust. He watched a pickpocket cleanly remove a handkerchief from one man’s pocket, and a watch from another’s, before slipping back into the shadows.

A man stood just under the dim light shed from the hell’s windows, a low-brimmed cap further shading his features. There was something familiar about his stance. Warning bells rang in Valerian’s head.

The man had been there that night. Watching. Right before Templing had fallen behind him.

Another man approached. “Good haul tonight, Evans. Thought there might be a drop off in business at first, but if nothing else, we’ve had an increase with the fancy lickers trying to take the place of the old ones—or to find them.” The man looked extremely satisfied, his hands on his hips. “Have to say that I didn’t think the plan would work. Thought we’d be inhabiting fair Newgate’s cells for it.”

“You have a fat mouth, Burns.” The voice was low and dark. “Leave now before I remove it permanently.”

Burns gave an uncomfortable laugh and dropped his arms. “Now, no need for dramatics. No one around to see or hear. Just the gulls going about their way, filling our pockets.”

Burns received no response and his uncomfortable laughter became laced with something resembling fear. “I was just having fun with the notion that we might burn for it. The fancy man will take the fall, if it comes to that. We melt into the shadows, we do.”

A hand reached out and clasped around the flunky’s throat. “
You’d
do well to remember that. No one would miss you, Burns.”

The hand released and Burns stumbled back. “Yes, well then, I’ll be going back to my business. Boys have done fine tonight.” He moved back a few steps, keeping his eyes on the more dangerous man, and then turned and fled to the other side of the street.

Valerian walked closer, trying to see the man’s—Evans’s—features. Eyes sharpened and looked in his direction, and for a moment Valerian’s non-beating heart metaphorically stopped, thinking the man could see him. But then Evans’s gaze again switched off to the side, to a new group emerging from the hell, and he slipped into the shadows. Valerian stepped after him, but the pull became stronger with each movement further away from Abigail. He cursed and stepped back.

The other man, Burns, was already across the street yelling at a pack of boys—pickpockets and runaways. Likely taking his fear out on his underlings—finding a release in rage. Valerian stepped closer so that he could hear what they were saying.

“I want you to find out everything about the fancy man who did the deed on those two blokes. There’s money to be made, I know it.”

Valerian reeled. Here it was within his grasp. Proof of who had taken him. “Say the name, damnit,” he demanded, even knowing no one could hear him.

Burns pointed to two boys. “Jimmy, Tony, Golden Square. Keep tabs. And I still want your daily take, you hear me?”

The boys nodded sullenly.

Golden Square…Penshard lived there, as did a wide variety of other acquaintances. Even Basil had a temporary residence on the square.

Jimmy and Tony moved away on stealthy cat feet, blending into the crowd. Valerian started to run, desperate to follow them, but just like with Evans, he didn’t get far before the tug pulled and pressed too hard, before his memories started to slip.

Abigail. He needed her. Needed her to follow the boys so that he could.

And if that yielded nothing, he was going to need her to search the outskirts of the underbelly of London. Even more dangerous territory.

He cursed.

Violently.

Then cursed again.

“Y
ou want me to do what?”

The shock of his request made Abigail momentarily forget that she was in a dark alley, shallow or not, and dangerous-looking men were passing by.

“I need you to follow two boys.”

She stared at Rainewood for a second. Telly pulled on her sleeve. “Miss, what is it?”

She ignored Telly for the moment and concentrated on the greater foe. “Follow them where?”

“To Golden Square. Far better to get you out of here anyway.”

She caught sight of a man with a low-slung cap watching her. There was something entirely wrong with the way in which he was doing it.

“Very well. I’d rather leave anyway, as it were.”

She heard Telly give a relieved sigh. “I will find a hack, miss. Please, let’s go.”

Abigail kept her head averted as they passed a few men that she recognized as the more adventurous men from the ton. She panicked and ducked her head entirely when Gregory passed. Rainewood’s eyes narrowed.

“Penshard’s finding new stomping grounds, I see. Yet another strike pointing his way.”

“What happened between you two?” She had always wanted to know, but Gregory hadn’t been forthcoming and his cutting personality had discouraged questions.

“He’s always wanted the estates for himself. He was Thornton’s little dog. Doesn’t think I will run them well. A bit hypocritical for him to set foot down here.” His eyes narrowed further. “Or further proof that his actions mean ill.”

She had known of Gregory from his visits to the estate. As children they had never formed any sort of attachment though, and had barely crossed paths, as Rainewood had held the man, then a boy, in contempt. Gregory had always liked to follow Rainewood’s older brother, Thornton, the heir, around instead. “Trying to be a little duke,” Valerian had mocked.

Telly pointed to a hack resting at the corner and hurried in that direction. Abigail felt for her money pouch in her pocket, secure that they would be on their way home soon. What problem could they encounter with one measly stop on Golden Square?

Her total ruination if seen by someone in the ton notwithstanding.

Rainewood seemed to read her thought. “We will stay in the carriage.”

She nodded. Telly had already talked to the driver and nervously shifted from foot to foot before hopping up into the carriage in a way that no man would. Abigail turned to the driver, a man with droopy lids and a large mustache.

“Circle Golden Square,” she commanded gruffly. “Slowly. Want to observe the uppers at play.”

The driver shrugged and jerked his shoulder toward the interior of the hack. She climbed up, trying to mimic a gentleman’s actions, consciously tapping down on her urge to grip and lift the imaginary dress that should be pushing in front of her.

The trousers still felt foreign against her legs, but she had to admit that it was easier to enter a carriage without having to worry about gripping yards of material, no matter how ingrained the gesture.

The carriage traveled west through the streets toward Mayfair. Abigail distracted herself by watching Telly’s hands mottle red and white as she clutched them together, then clutched her shirt, the handle of the door, and the worn material of the seat.

Rainewood looked just as antsy, though he displayed it in less obvious ways. Brooding, dark eyes, fingers that silently tapped the seat, slouched position that was just a little too languid to be anything other than forced.

The hack turned onto Golden Square and Rainewood straightened, peering through the open window into the center park as they passed each house at a leisurely pace. She watched through the window facing the houses, but withdrew to the edge when she saw more than one face that she recognized.

Edwina and Gregory lived in the square on the north side. Phillip’s aunt lived somewhere in the square as well. It was a busy address, full of society members and social climbers.

They rounded the first corner. The faces of the buildings were shrouded in shadows or blooming from internal light, condemning or gawking at her as the hack passed.

They rounded the next corner.

“Stop.” Rainewood’s voice was harsh.

She jerked from her trance and thumped the carriage wall behind her. The hack pulled to a stop. She scooted over next to Rainewood.

“There.” He pointed at two men talking in the park. They were trying to blend into the foliage, trying to appear as if there was nothing strange about their presence in the square. However, they were much less nattily dressed than the people walking by, and on second viewing she could see they were younger than she’d originally thought. No more than boys—street rats at that. Still, had she been walking along the street in her finest, she doubted she would have paid them any mind with the way they were shielding themselves.

A constable, on the other hand would notice. And a man who was obviously part of the watch was walking along the path a dozen paces away. The two boys disappeared into a copse of trees. The constable walked by, greeting a couple passing him. As soon as he was a respectable distance away, the boys appeared back in their places as neatly as if they hadn’t moved at all.

They stared at a house across the street, waiting. For what, she didn’t know.

She looked at the facade. Number Eighteen. She wracked her brain. Who lived in Number Eighteen? Her mother had drilled the numbers into her upon their Town descent. Eighteen, eighteen. She took in Rainewood’s hard lips and unreadable expression.

Eighteen
. Her hand went to her mouth. Oh no.

She automatically put a hand out to Rainewood’s arm, but he simply lifted it so that her fingers dropped right through. She withdrew her hand into her lap as he signaled for her to have the carriage continue. She thumped the wall again and the carriage started its slow lope around the square.

Rainewood never took his eyes away from the facade of the row house.

It felt like an eternity until they reached the point down the street where they had agreed to disembark. Telly led the charge, shooing Abigail forward in her eagerness to get back to the house. Rainewood simply walked alongside, lips tight.

They reached their house ten minutes later. “Telly, crack the door, but don’t enter yet,” Abigail said.

Her maid did so and Rainewood strode through, returning a moment later with a nod that the foyer was clear. Shadows swirled in his eyes.

With the help of Rainewood they crept through the house and her room as stealthily as they had left. Telly quickly had her stripped of the footmen’s outfit before Abigail could even work up the embarrassment to change in front of Rainewood—this time with far fewer clothes on. Just as well, since he was preoccupied, prowling about the room, stepping through Aunt Effie as she chattered.

Abigail knew what ailed him, but she thought it better for him to admit it aloud. “What ails you now?” she asked as she helped Telly dress—refastening the back of the maid’s standard outfit. Telly quickly slipped from the room as soon as she was done, promising to return with a hot cup of tea.

Rainewood hit the pole of the four-poster—a blow that would have made the wood vibrate had he been physically present. Instead his hand merely sank through after a moment of inattention. “I can’t believe Basil would do me in.”

She bit her lip. “You don’t know for sure that it was his house they were watching.” But Basil held a lease in Number Eighteen for when he desired independence from the heavy thumbs of the dowager and the duke.

“Who else’s could it be? If it had been Penshard’s, I wouldn’t have been surprised. But Basil…” He gave a humorless laugh. “You were right about not going to him, Smart.”

“I…no, not because of that. I can’t believe that Basil would—”

He hit the four-poster and this time produced a thud of sound to her ears. “So what next, is the question. Shake it out of Basil?” He gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Not much I can do there.”

“Have you thought that maybe it is someone who is staying at Basil’s? Do any of your friends stay there? Or his?”

Brooding dark eyes turned to her, but there was a slight lightening around his eyes. “Perhaps. Perhaps, Smart.” He turned away. “You have a full day tomorrow, do you not?”

She self-consciously picked at her rail. “Yes.”

A day full of suitors, appointments, and an outing with Mr. Farnswourth.

“Sleep, Smart,” he said softly. “I’ll keep watch.”

Unfortunately the mellower Rainewood who had been present when she’d fallen asleep had been replaced by the side of him she saw more frequently about town—brooding and whip-edged.

She hadn’t thought anything could be quite as miserable as her first outings with Rainewood tagging along, but she had been grossly mistaken. He sliced and diced everything, from the cut of Mr. Farnswourth’s cloth to the lack of intelligent conversation to the way the clouds were moving in the sky.

After a particularly cutting tirade in which everything from the man’s parentage, lineage, and manners were dissected, she let her reticule fall to the ground and whacked Rainewood in the forehead with her palm as Mr. Farnswourth bent down to retrieve her bag. “Stop that,” she hissed, unable to concentrate on anything but Rainewood’s less than dulcet tones. “You promised to help, not hinder!”

She had the feeling that her reaction was precisely what he had wanted. He touched his forehead and smirked.

“What, what?” Mr. Farnswourth asked as he drew upright and handed her the bag.

“Thank you, Mr. Farnswourth. That was most gentlemanly of you. You are an asset to your lineage.” She smiled winningly and let the edge of her lip curl when Rainewood glowered.

She gloated for a second at this response and opened her mouth to jab at
Rainewood’s
lineage, when her arm was given a sudden jerk. Pain radiated up her limb as her newly retrieved reticule was ripped from her grasp. The shock of the feeling was enough to keep her twisted in position from the force of the motion before her body and mouth kicked back into action.

“Thief!” Her feet went from still to racing as she ran after the man, no boy, dodging in and out of the walkers, bag clutched against his chest.

“Thief!”

A man ahead made an attempt to grab the towheaded boy, but the boy nimbly sidestepped and disappeared into the crowd.

Abigail stopped to scan the area and heard a wheeze as Mr. Farnswourth caught up to her.

“Miss Smart, I say, are you well?”

“That boy stole my reticule! Of course I am not well,” she said irritably. “I had a new handkerchief in there that I rather liked.”

Mr. Farnswourth looked uncomfortable. “Are you hurt?”

She sighed and shook her arm to loosen the tension that had gathered there. Having her bag ripped from her grasp had not been pleasant. “I am fine, Mr. Farnswourth. Thank you for your concern.”
And for running after the perpetrator
, something crabby inside her wanted to add.

“We should contact a constable, Miss Smart.”

“Yes, Mr. Farnswourth. That is true. Luckily I didn’t have much in—” She broke off as she saw a blond head peer from between two stalls, then disappear. “There he is!” she pointed.

She took off running again, surprise and ire giving her added speed. She broke through the crowd, running as fast as her slippers and skirts could manage. Blond hair darted between one stall then another as she continued the chase.

Rainewood appeared at her elbow, running alongside. He seemed to have finally realized he didn’t need air though, as he wasn’t winded. “Stop, Smart, I thought I saw—”

A hand gripped her arm, yanking her into a secluded alley at the back of the stall she had followed the boy into. She was immediately pinned to the wall, unable to see her attacker, but it was definitely a large man who held her, not a slip of a boy. Panic rushed through her, and she took a deep gasp of breath, the stench of the alley washing over her as the bricks bit into her cheek.

A grimy hand covered her mouth. “Got ya’,” a rough voice said in her ear.

She could still hear the bustle of the vendors along the street. Surely someone would see them. Would come to help. She was in a safe part of town.

Her arm twisted and she gasped another foul breath.

“The infamous, Miss Smart. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” a rasping voice said to her left—not the man holding her, a second man then. His speech was not that of a longshoreman though, the voice was more cultured, though the tone was uncivilized. “Imagine my surprise when you turned up last night. What were you doing slumming in that section of town, Miss Smart? A bit out of the way for someone like you.”

Panic spiked in her further that the man seemed to know her. Valerian appeared at her elbow, eyes a bit wild as he tried to pry the man’s fingers away from her arm to no avail. “Damn it, Smart.”

She tried to calm her fear. Surprisingly, having Valerian near helped.

Something sharp pressed into her side. “I wouldn’t attempt a scream, if I were you,” the cultured voice said. “We will be long gone before someone finds your corpse.”

The first man’s fingers slid away from her mouth, leaving a foul feeling behind. She concentrated on Valerian and his frantic movements, finding courage.

“I don’t know what you are talking about, sir. But please tell your friend to release me.”

“Perhaps. Eventually.” The now amused voice whispered in her ear, closer. “What were you doing near the St. Thomas hell?”

Panic worked through her again, and Valerian’s eyes grew wider and his fingers worked harder—never connecting to the man, slipping right through his flesh. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“Oh, no?”

The other man gave her arm a twist and pain shot through her. Her cheek scratched against the grit of the mortar. She tried to move away, but was neatly trapped between the man and the unforgiving bricks. The man was far too strong and he had placed her in a hold designed to use less than half of his strength—her body position and the wall doing the work for him.

Valerian continued trying to grip, punch, and grapple the man unsuccessfully, his eyes darting above her head to the other man as well. He let out a string of curses, and then touched her instead, his cool fingers soothing the skin of her cheek pressed against the wall as his hand dipped through. Fingers trailing down her neck, stroking, petting.