No Place for a Dame (13 page)

Oddly, Travers didn’t seem all that unhappy. In fact, he looked quite comfortable sitting at the butler’s table wiping down the saltcellar. Avery considered asking him to put off the task and accompany her but she was uncertain just how much power a young man as she was supposed to be enjoyed in a household. Enough to trump Mrs. Silcock’s decree? It seemed unlikely.

And if Travers declined, she’d have told him her plans to leave the house and then he would explicitly forbid her from doing so. And she couldn’t disobey a direct order. Not a
direct
one…

So, instead, she headed to the front hall where Boote, the second footman, leapt to attention. Half expecting him to bar the door, she tentatively asked for her coat. He fetched it at once. Without asking a single question. Without raising a brow.

Grinning like a cat let into the dovecote, Avery shrugged into it, clapped her hat on her head, and stepped outside. Closing her eyes, she tipped her face back and inhaled deeply. She smiled. True, it stank of coal smoke and sewage and the sky was still dim and the air was still cold, but at least she was out of the house.

Stepping smartly, she descended to the sidewalk and followed it to the corner. Ahead of her stretched a far more crowded thoroughfare than Strand’s relatively empty street. Elegant barouches and landaus moved up and down the broad boulevard, maneuvering around the dray carts stopped at the curb. Despite the cold, a number of people hurried along on either side of the street, their heads tucked down and their collars pulled high. A man selling roasted nuts from a cart sat huddled at the corner, shoveling chestnuts into twists of paper for a few pennies. A clutch of youngsters surrounded him more, she suspected, to be near the warmth from his brazier than to make a purchase.

Avery spied the bookstore Strand had mentioned behind the vendor. She entered and was at once approached by a pleasant young clerk who asked if he might assist her. She was about to ask him to direct her to those shelves dedicated to scientific subjects but something stopped her.

She had always had a secret penchant for melodrama, romance, and commedia del’arte. But the old marquess had condemned such books as
“low-brow pap, unworthy of a person of intellect.” Later, in the homes of her tutors, being sensitive to how her tastes in literary entertainments might reflect on her intelligence, she’d never allowed herself to enjoy them.

But now there was no reason she shouldn’t read whatever she wanted. There was no marquess to disappoint and no scholars to disapprove. It was a mildly thrilling idea.

And so, for the next two hours, she happily pottered about the bookstore, leafing through the various books the eager young clerk gladly provided. She would be lying had she not admitted that part of her pleasure derived simply from being in the company of others. For while the store was not precisely busy, a steady stream of people came and went, sometimes alone, but often in company with others. Avery eavesdropped shamelessly, listening avidly as they argued the merits of one author over another, taking note of particular titles that sounded intriguing, and silently adding her own voice to the discussions.

She finally made her selection, paid for it, and waited while the clerk wrapped the book in brown paper. She tucked it under her arm, intending to head back to Strand’s townhouse, when her eye was caught by the coffee shop placard. Coffee houses were mostly male enclaves. She’d been a male for four full days now and not experienced any of the advantages. And it was still early in the day.…

With a dawning sense of adventure, she ducked into the coffee shop and looked around. It was just a smallish, rather unadorned room holding a dozen tables of varying sizes, all empty save for two: a pair of young men sitting in deeply earnest silence occupied one while the only other customer, a plump, balding man in early old age, pored over a newspaper at the other. At the back was a counter on which stood a large samovar.

She doffed her hat and headed towards a table well back from the diamond-paned front window. As soon as she sat down, the proprietor hurried over. “What’ll it be then, young sir?”

“Coffee.”

He nodded, leaving her to return to her study of the room’s other occupants. She made a little game of it. The younger men were bank clerks, she decided, and they hated their employer and were here
building up their courage to quit their jobs. She turned her attention to the older gentleman.

He wore half mittens and licked his fingertips before turning the page of his paper. He had a comfortable look, the complacent air of a regular customer. An accountant, she settled on, newly retired or so near retirement that no one would bother to chastise him for being too long at his supper and he knew it. He caught Avery’s eye and nodded.

Startled to be caught staring, she returned his nod with an apologetic smile. Apparently the older gent decided to take this as some sort of invitation, for after a second’s hesitation, he lumbered to his feet—he weighed a bit more than she’d realized—and waddled over to where she sat.

“New up from the country, I see,” he said without preamble.

She blinked up at him through her spectacles. “Excuse me, sir?”

He smiled, a merry twinkle to his eye. “Your shoes, sir. Your shoes. They’re brogues made in the country. Tell me I am wrong. Tell me. I dare you.”

She looked down at her shoes. Whatever he saw was not so obvious to her. But one glance at his avid expression and she could not take offense.

“I do not know how you divined that my shoes are country made, but you are correct. They are and I am newly arrived in the city.”

He beamed with delight.

“It’s marvelous,” she said, enjoying being able to give the gentleman such obvious pleasure. “What gives them away?”

He waved his hand at the empty chair across from her. “May I join you?”

She ought to demur. She ought to leave. But the dodger was so patently harmless and just as patently eager for companionship and heavens knew she was, too. What harm would there be in spending ten minutes taking coffee with him?

“Certainly.”

He pulled out the empty chair and dropped into it, stretching his legs out in front of him. “What makes them country is the buckles, lad. No young gentleman wears buckles these days. Why,
I
don’t even wear them anymore and if
I
don’t wear buckles, you can be well assured that
no
one wears buckles. Tell me I’m wrong!”

His bonhomie was contagious. She shook her head. “Not I!”

“Good lad,” he approved. “What I
don’t
know is what part of the country is so misguided as to still put buckles on their brogues. Enlighten me.”

“Cornwall.” The answer popped out of her mouth before she knew it. At once, she realized her mistake. She wasn’t supposed to let on she had ever been anywhere near Killylea.

“Excuse me? I didn’t rightly hear that. Your voice is not much more than a whisper and my ears ain’t what they used to be.”

She sighed with relief. “Sorry,” she said a little more loudly. “Cumbria.”

“Well, that is a mite far off in the country. Somethin’ happen to yer voice, son?”

She felt herself blush. She disliked lying outright to the old gentleman. “Happened when I was a boy. I got sick and my throat just seized up on me like. Been like this ever since.”

The man nodded again and Avery shifted uncomfortably. She would pay her bill and leave. This had been a bad idea after all. She was about to motion the tavern owner over when the older gentleman leaned back in his chair.

“Let me tell you about when I first come to London, young sir. Like you I was from the country, but from the coast and it was there that I become a sailor and sailed off to war with the colonies in the Americas.…”

The next half hour flew as he regaled her with tales of fighting the colonists at sea. When she finally glanced out the window, she was shocked to see that the light had faded from the sky and it was coming on dark. Travers was bound to notice her absence soon if he hadn’t already.

She bolted to her feet. “I’m sorry, sir. I… the time.” Hastily, she collected her package and scattered some coins on the table. “I hadn’t realized. I’m sorry but I must go. I apologize for being so abrupt—”

“Now then, don’t you worry about it. I tend to ramble when I get started. So my daughter says. Off you go!”

“Thank you!” She shoved her hat on her head, grabbed her greatcoat from where it hung, and hurried out the door.

It only took a few minutes to navigate the short distance back to Strand’s townhouse. She headed round to the mews entrance, generally
reserved for delivery and tradespeople, and slipped inside. There was no one around. This close to supper time they would be busy preparing the meal. With one last quick glance around she scooted up the servants’ stairs to her bedchamber. She hadn’t even doffed her coat when she heard a knock.

“Yes?”

“It’s me. Travers,” came a low reply.

“A minute!” she called out, jerking off of her coat and flinging it behind the bed before letting him in.

He crossed the room without glancing at her and dropped heavily into a chair. “That woman is indefatigable.”

“Something tells me your romance with the silver shining has waned.”

“The silver shining was not the problem. The iron dog blacking, chandelier polishing, hauling water for the laundress, turning of mattresses…
those
were the problems. And I can see in the shrew’s eye she means to have her pound of flesh tomorrow, too.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know yet. But
something
will be done.” He puffed out his cheeks and then looked up at her. “Where have you been all day?”

She hated to lie to him: Luckily, she didn’t have to.

“Hiding from her?” He answered his own question. “I shouldn’t wonder. She’s taken a great dislike to you. Thinks you are ‘a trumped-up little toad.’ Still, it must be stultifying having to be up here all day. I complain about having to do a spot of work but at least I have people to talk to.” He regarded her sympathetically.

She smiled weakly. “I managed to keep occupied.”

Giles drummed his fingers on the top of his desk, carefully scanning the list of names on this particular ship’s manifest. The records he’d requested for the dates in question had been delivered at noon. Since then he’d sequestered himself in his library searching for… damn it! That was the problem. He wasn’t certain what he was looking for. If Jack and
Anne had left the country, they’d have done so under assumed names—obtaining the necessary paperwork would have been a small matter for someone with Jack’s connections. Making things even harder, they wouldn’t necessarily have shared the same last name. Or perhaps even the same mode of transportation.

And that assumed that they’d left the country alive and well. Because that is what Giles wanted to believe. But that also meant they’d left without betraying a hint of their intentions or a whisper of forewarning and that, Giles knew, was a bloody, bloody hard thing to do.

He’d spent the last four days knocking on various doors and calling in favors—the ships’ manifests were the results of one such conversation. His frustration was palpable.

Now, compounding his bad temper, Travers had just delivered what Giles’ old nurse would have called “an earful” regarding his dereliction of duty towards Avery Quinn. Apparently, he’d neglected, ignored, and disregarded the poor girl who, bless her valiant, long-suffering soul, had not complained once—though, knowing Avery, Giles was not at all sure he believed that. But that was neither here nor there.

The fact was, Travers was right. Giles
had
ignored Avery. Because she was too distracting, too appealing, and the things that prowled the back corridors of his imagination whenever they were together were wrong. Far more wrong than leaving her alone for a few days.
Not
leaving her alone, now
that
would be wrong. And he didn’t want to leave her alone. She…
damn it
.

He set down his pen, staring sightlessly at his blotter.

Avery Quinn was becoming something of a problem.

It wasn’t just that sexual desire awoke when he was in her vicinity, she plagued other parts of his mind, too. He spent too much time thinking about her, arguing with her in his imagination, wondering what her reaction would be to such and such an eventuality, plotting for her installment in the Royal Astrological Society. He didn’t understand it.

Twice in his adult life, Giles had thought himself in love: once with a beautiful, vivacious girl and once with a lovely widow. Both times, he’d entered the contests for their hands too late and they’d chosen better men. The last lady had become Jack Seward’s wife, Anne. And that had been not two months ago.

And yet, even before Anne’s disappearance, he’d begun to realize that the ache of loss he’d felt had been for what he’d wanted there to be, not for what had been. He might not be capable of the sort of connection he’d witnessed between Jack and Anne. He might be akin to a connoisseur of the arts, able to recognize the beauty of what others created without having the least talent for creating it himself.