Suzanne Robinson (35 page)

Asher Fox recovered his walking stick from the floor of the vehicle. “I say, Jos, you were right. It is your lady.”

Jocelin shook a finger at Liza. “You be quiet.”

Liza opened her mouth. Jocelin gave her a furious look, and she shut her mouth.

“I told you,” Jocelin said to his friend with a grin of triumph. “It took me weeks of searching until I realized that she wouldn’t hide in the country or on the Continent. The stubborn little widgeon can’t give up on an idea once she’s latched on to it. She’s been spying on Winthrop, who is the one she most suspects. Ouch! Hang it, Liza.”

Jocelin rubbed his ribs where Liza had elbowed him. She glared at him, so furious that she couldn’t trust herself to speak. She folded her arms, whipped her body around, and stared straight ahead for the rest of the drive to Jocelin’s house.

Asher continued in the carriage, while Liza was
tugged inside like a runaway urchin. In the marble hall, she got tired of being herded, set her feet, and halted. Jocelin stumbled, then turned and growled at her.

“You need a good thrashing. Don’t tempt me.”

“You’re a self-satisfied fool,” Liza said as she yanked her hand free of his grasp. “You’ve just blurted out my suspicions to the man I’ve begun to suspect of murder.”

She might have held her temper if he hadn’t laughed at her.

“Old Winthrop? To kill anyone would be beneath his royal dignity.”

Smiling, Liza approached him while he laughed. “Do you know what you are?”

She flicked the end of his nose gently with a forefinger. Jocelin blinked. Then his jaw sank as he stared at her.

“You’re a conceited bigot.”

Sidestepping his stunned figure, Liza headed for the door. She wasn’t quick enough. A roar echoed off the marble floor and columns. She sprang for freedom, but he lunged at her, encircled her waist, and lifted her. She sailed over his shoulder. Air rushed from her lungs as she was jounced upstairs. He plopped her down on a bed, and she rolled in time to escape Jocelin’s descending body.

“Liza, you come back here and talk to me,” he said on a note of controlled irritation.

Springing from the bed, she raced into Jocelin’s sitting room. He caught up with her before she was halfway across the carpet. His arms dropped lightly around her, pinning her against his chest with her back to him. Then she felt something soft on her neck. His lips. The bastard. Kissing her when she was so furious
with him. She was about to snarl at him when someone knocked on the door.

Jocelin lifted his mouth from her neck. “Go away.”

Nick Ross came in anyway. He sauntered over to them, his gaze taking in Liza’s disheveled and humble garb and Jocelin’s determined face.

“So,” he said, “you’ve found her. Knew you would, love. A fellow never misplaces a wife for long. But you’re still playing Oberon and Titania, I see.”

“Get out,” Jocelin said between his teeth.

“Shall I play Puck or Bottom?”

“I said, go away. I’m taming a shrew, not wooing a faerie queen.”

“Ah,” Nick said. “ ‘Such duty as the subject owes the prince, / Even such a woman oweth to her husband.’ ”

Liza wriggled in Jocelin’s arms. “I oweth him not a damned thing!”

“Silly woman,” Jocelin said. He glanced at Nick. “She loves me, you know.

At the complacent tone in his voice, Liza lost all forbearance. She dropped down through Jocelin’s encircling arms, dodged him as he grabbed for her, and sprang away from him. However, Nick’s hand darted out and caught hers.

“Sorry, me lady. Old Jos would never forgive me if I let you scarper.”

Jocelin walked over to her. Liza shrank from him at the sight of his determined solemnity.

“Now, Jos,” Nick said. “You just hold on.” He stepped between them.

“Get out of the way.”

“Not until you listen.”

“She’s my wife.” Jocelin tried to step around Nick, who moved to bar his way again.

“Do you want to keep her this time?”

No answer.

“Do you?”

Liza looked over Nick’s shoulder and saw Jocelin give his friend a curt nod.

“Last time she ran away, it took you weeks to find her. This time, you may not find her at all. She don’t have to stay in England, old love. She’s got pluck enough to go just about anywhere if you drive her to it.”

Jocelin tossed his head. “I won’t let her. Eventually she’ll have to listen to me.”

“What are you going to do? Lock her up until she’s too old and ridden with gout to run away?”

“Well, no.” Jocelin appeared to lapse into thought.

Nick turned to Liza. “And what are you about, miss? Going to spend your days hiding from him?”

“He treats me like a spaniel.” Liza sighed and pushed locks of hair back from her face with her free hand. “He won’t listen to me. He thinks the moment I became his wife I lost what little intelligence he ever credited me with having.”

“I do not.” Jocelin threw up his hands. “She spends too much time dealing with that domestic agency, and now she’s skulking about my friends’ houses in disguise. Ladies shouldn’t do such things and, hang it, she could be in danger.”

“My lord.”

They all turned to find Loveday hovering nearby.

“Mr. Fox has called again, my lord. Shall I send him up?”

“Oh, why not. Most of London’s here anyway.” Jocelin said in disgust. He pointed to a chair and snapped at Liza. “You sit down and don’t think of running away. I’ll catch you before you reach the hall.”

Nick released her, but Liza only stared at her husband.

“Sit down!”

Nick intervened before Jocelin reached her. Taking her hand, he kissed it.

“My lady, may I offer you a chair?”

Liza left off glaring at Jocelin, gave Nick a sweet, compliant smile, and allowed him to escort her to the chair. Jocelin cursed, but was interrupted by Asher Fox.

He came in, his collar askew, his face drawn, and went directly to Jocelin. “May I speak with you privately?”

“What’s wrong?” Jocelin asked.

“I—I can’t. Not in front of others.”

Asher put his lips near Jocelin’s ear. Liza strained to hear what he was saying. She thought she heard the name Yale, but could make out nothing else. Jocelin said nothing in response, but she could see him withdraw into himself.

“Nick, watch her.”

“What’s wrong?” Liza asked as he walked out of the room, followed by Asher.

He called over his shoulder. “You’d better be here when I return.”

She leaped from her chair, intent on pursuing him, but Nick stopped her by closing the door and locking it. He slipped the key into his vest pocket.

“Sorry, old girl.”

“Something’s wrong. Please, Nick.”

“Jos will take care of whatever’s wrong.”

“You don’t understand, I heard Mr. Fox say something important.”

Nick shrugged. “I got my orders.”

“Oooo! You men, you’re all in a plot to drive women mad.” Liza went to him and plucked at his lapel. “I heard him say something about Jocelin’s family.”

“Maybe. Jos is still furious about—something that happened a long time ago.”

“You know about that?” Liza gaped at Nick.

Nick gaped back at her. “Bloody hell, you know?”

She nodded her head violently.

Cursing, Nick whirled away from her. “That’s why you left then.”

“Of course not. What a silly thing to say.”

Slowly, as though he couldn’t believe what he’d heard, Nick turned around. “Bloody hell, you’re a right one, you are. A peach.”

“Never mind,” Liza said. “Asher said something about Yale. Nick, if Jocelin has to face Yale again, I don’t think he’ll be able to control himself.”

“Bloody hell.” Nick found the key and unlocked the door. “Come on, before they get too far ahead.”

They plunged downstairs. Nick shouted for Choke, who appeared, startled and scandalized, but ignorant of Jocelin’s destination. Liza wasted no time on the man, and called for Loveday. The valet appeared from behind the servants’ door.

In response to Liza’s question, he nodded. “Yes, my lady. His lordship mentioned Lord Yale. Perhaps he’s gone to Grosvenor Square.”

She and Nick bolted for his carriage, and they clattered out of the drive as the sun reached its apex in the sky. Their appearance at the duke’s residence
rivaled that of a cyclone. Liza burst out of the still-rolling vehicle with Nick in pursuit. They crashed through the brass and cut glass doors, past an outraged butler and parlor maid.

Nick passed Liza on their dash for the drawing room, where they burst upon his grace, the duchess, and a young lady. Liza rushed up to the duke, panting.

“Jocelin, where is he?”

The duke rose and waved away his butler and two footmen who had chased after the intruders. He looked down his nose at Liza.

“Miss Elliot? Is that you?”

“Lady Radcliffe,” Nick said, “and you know it.”

Liza had no time for pettiness. “Where is Jocelin?”

“Young woman, I haven’t seen my son since he staged that disgraceful scene with his uncle.”

“Then he hasn’t been here?”

“No. Will you please leave?”

Ignoring him, Liza turned to Nick. “Then where can he have gone?”

“He must be searching for Yale,” Nick said.

“Nonsense. Jocelin detests poor Yale and refuses to see him unless forced,” the duke said. “And in any case, my brother is at his club in Symmonds Street, not here.”

They chased through midday traffic in the heart of London. Careening down the Strand, they were delayed by an overturned omnibus and arrived in Symmonds Street too late. Nick inquired within the club, for ladies weren’t allowed. Liza waited in a fidgety state until Nick returned to the carriage. Yale had left over an hour ago. Jocelin and Asher had called for him, then left abruptly when it became apparent that no one at the club knew his destination.

“I’m worried,” she said as she twisted her hands in her lap. “You didn’t see Jocelin with his uncle.”

“I don’t have to.”

Nick was drumming his fingers on the carriage window. The drumming slowed, then stopped. “Wait.”

“What?”

“Now wait a minute.” Nick began to tap out a rhythm again. “Jocelin has Yale followed. Constantly. Has for years. To make sure like.”

“But then why would Asher—

“Old Asher’s never concerned himself too close with Yale’s doings.”

Liza grabbed Nick’s arm. “Dear God in heaven. It’s not Yale at all. Asher heard about my spying. Jocelin told him my idea about the murders.”

“Bloody hell.”

Shaking Nick’s arm, Liza hissed at him. “It’s Asher, and he has Jocelin.”

A
s the carriage left Whitechapel Road and turned north into Spitalfields, Jocelin touched the ivory handle of his Colt. He’d stuffed it into his waistband as he left the house with Asher.

They passed block after block of dirty brick and clapboard structures that looked worse in the afternoon sunlight than in gloom. Refuse hugged the bases of buildings. Broken drains emitted their nauseating perfume, and the streets grew more and more narrow until the buildings on either side seemed to bend toward each other. Dirty, vacant windows stared down at him.

A match vendor scuffled alongside the carriage as it stopped for a water wagon. Shoeless and dirty children pounded on the carriage and ran off laughing.
The carriage turned a corner out of the bustle of foot and vehicle traffic and stopped at the corner of Little Thyme Hill and Liverpool Lane. Asher started to get out, but Jocelin put an arm across the door.

“Are you sure the boy said Spitalfields? This corner?”

“Of course. Do you think I could mistake Spitalfields?”

They got out, and Jocelin waited while Asher paid the driver to wait for them. He glanced at the red brick wall behind him. Its surface was layered with a century’s worth of advertisements—notices of theater performances, livestock sales, tobacco for sale. He glanced down Little Thyme Hill past row after row of blank-faced houses. The breeze shifted, and he smelled the sweet, heavy scent of opium.

“I don’t understand it,” he said when Asher finished with the driver. “Why would Mott send a boy with a message about Yale to you?”

“Think,” Asher said as he surveyed their unhealthy surroundings. “I was coming up the steps to your house, and the boy thought I was you. Obviously your man hadn’t described you to him.”

Jocelin examined the mews and storehouses on Liverpool Lane. “It’s not like Yale to come to an area like this.”

“Jos, look.”

Asher pointed down Little Thyme Hill. “Blast it, he’s gone down that alley. Come on.”

Without waiting for Jocelin, Asher plunged down the street. Jocelin chased after him, turned a corner, and found himself in an alley faced with boarded windows and locked doors. At the end an intersection was partly blocked by a high fence. Asher was just disappearing around the fence.

“Ash, wait.”

Jocelin raced after his friend. Squeezing between a wall and the fence, he emerged in a court littered with old grain bags, bits of muddy clothing, and broken barrels. There was only one way out, through a door in the face of a building Jocelin knew better than to enter. Unfortunately he saw Asher go through it and into a dark passage.