Temptress in Training (8 page)

“I saw him last night, too,” she whispered.

“What?” Miss St. Clement said, pulling her to a complete halt in the middle of the grimy alleyway. “You saw him following us last night?”

“I saw him last night, but I didn't know he was following us. I noticed him on the street near Mr. Fitzgelder's house, but I assumed he was there looking for Lord Lindley.”

“Lindley was gone by the time we left there last night.”

“I know, so I assumed his boy would go find him elsewhere.”

Miss St. Clement frowned. “How do you know he's Lindley's boy?”

“He's wearing the livery,” Sophie explained. “At least, I'm fairly certain that's Lord Lindley's livery.”

“And you recognize that because…?”

“Because messages would be brought to and from the house where I used to work. Lord Lindley was rather, er, intimate with the mistress of that house.”

Miss St. Clement rolled her eyes, smoothed her mustache, and adjusted her hat. “Men.”

“But what do we do, Miss St. Clement?” Sophie questioned. “What if he follows us all the way to the coaching house? He'll see what direction we are taking and he'll report to his master. Lindley knows we overheard Mr. Fitzgelder's plan! He'll realize where we are going.”

“And he'll tell Fitzgelder all about it, too. He'll have another band of cutthroats sent out after us. Damn.”

“Yes,” Sophie agreed. “Damn.”

Miss St. Clement chuckled at her. “You shouldn't swear, Sophie. It really doesn't suit you.”

“But you swear, Miss St. Clement!”

“I'm an actress.”

Actresses weren't known for being, er, entirely proper. Well, then again, neither were seamstresses who had spent four years living in a brothel.

“And I'm hardly a lady, Miss St. Clement,” Sophie declared. “So I'll damn things if I like.”

Now the actress actually laughed. But it was not at her, so Sophie decided to be rather flattered that her worldly companion found her so amusing. She was quite certain if they didn't end up killed by Fitzgelder's men, they could quickly become close friends. That would be nice. Sophie had left all her friends behind at Madame Eudora's when she went to work for Mr. Fitzgelder. Aside from one dear cousin she hadn't seen in nearly seven years, Sophie was sadly bereft of friends.

But she supposed she'd be even more sadly bereft of her life if she and Miss St. Clement didn't find a way out of this narrow alley. Where did it lead? She peered down it, the long length of slick, cobbled roadway smeared liberally with all manner of filth. At the far, distant end, the hum and bustle of traffic assured her they were not precisely trapped, yet she really could not wish to wander any further into the depths. This alleyway was little more than a stinking crevice between two ramshackle buildings. In this part of town, there was no telling what might be waiting for them, watching from the smutty windows and dim, recessed doorways.

Yet she already knew what was waiting for them at the other end. That boy in Lindley's livery, the messenger who would carry news of them to his master, or worse, to the homicidal Fitzgelder. It seemed their only hope of getting to the coaching house unseen was to run this gauntlet. By the time their stalker realized what they were up to, they would be at the far end, hiding among the crowd. Then they could double back around the block and make it to their destination. How wonderful it would be to finally put London behind them!

And Warwick…Well, Warwick was very special to her. Some of Sophie's happiest days had been spent not far from there. How lovely it would be to see the river and smell the country air again. Yes, it would be worth it to risk this dank alley.

“If we want to make it to the coach house on time, we'd best hurry,” Miss St. Clement said.

“Perhaps a run?” Sophie suggested, recognizing the same trepidation on her friend's face that she felt in her own soul.

“Indeed. We should run.”

And so they did. Sophie was actually quite surprised at how quickly they passed those dirty, faceless windows and the dark, shadow-filled doorways. No one appeared. It seemed traversing this alley was as harmless as a stroll through Hyde Park at the height of the Season. If not for the smell of refuse and decay, she could have actually called their way almost pleasant.

Until something large shadowed the way ahead of them.

Sophie gasped and Miss St. Clement grasped her hand, pulling her to a stop and yanking her into one of those fearsome doorways. The women plastered themselves against the weathered door, scarcely breathing. Sophie gave her companion a worried look, and Miss St. Clement pressed one slender finger to her lips. They listened.

Their way had been blocked by a wagon. A large, sturdy wagon pulled by one huge horse was slowly being backed into the alley. The voices of two men called out, urging the horse and directing each other.

“All right, lock it there,” one voice called in a thick rural accent. “Let's hope they got someone in there what can help us haul the bloody thing.”

Now there were sounds of footsteps, and a door nearby creaked open. A shrill female voice joined the others, apparently criticizing the looks of the wagon. The men assured her it was good enough for the job and reminded her about their pay.

“My mistress will see you paid; she's not some good-for-nothing. But keep in mind this is a fine piece of furniture, this is. She won't want the likes of you banging it around and jostling it to pieces in that rattletrap cart you brought,” the woman said.

The men grumbled that they'd moved furniture from better houses than this and pronounced their wagon worthy for the task. The woman finally agreed, inviting the men indoors. It all seemed very commonplace, and Sophie sighed in relief.

These men were simply here to haul something, not to commit murder. The wagon blocked their way and was an inconvenience, for sure, but it was not life threatening. They would easily be around it.

The voices faded and the footsteps tramped on the stoop into the building. The men had followed the woman inside, presumably to get whatever it was they were going to haul. Sophie chanced to speak.

“Do we dare try to go around it?”

The women peeked out from their hiding place. It was a tight fit—the wagon very thoroughly blocked the opening.

“We can make it,” Miss St. Clement said, and she was just shifting to move out from where they hid when the shrill woman's voice was heard again.

“It took three hired boys to bring it down from the boudoir. Are you certain the two of you can manage it out the door and into your wagon?”

“Of course we can manage,” one of the men grumbled back at her. “Now step aside so we can get it up in the cart.”

At every
bang
and
clunk
the woman shrieked out cautions and directives, yet none of it seemed to have any effect on the men. They were silent, from what Sophie could tell. Probably just eager to get their item loaded and be away from this screeching taskmistress.

At length the sounds led Sophie to imagine the item—large, whatever it was—being shoved into the wagon and the boards slid into place at the rear to hold it there. Yes, finally the task was done and the men would be moving the wagon. There was hope the young women might still get to the mail coach on time.

“There, now that's a job well done,” the woman said with grudging finality. “But just see you get it to Oxford in good condition. And be glad my mistress ain't sending it off all loaded up and heavy. This is going to be a birthday gift for her sister what's got five brats and no place to never put nothing. So keep it tidy.”

“Never you mind, woman. We'll get it there in one good piece, we will. Now your mistress will be giving us a tidy little something for coming all the way to Town just to get this thing.”

“Yes, yes. She's got your fee. Told me to take you down to cook to get you something for your afternoon meal, too. Come inside. I'll send a boy out front to stand with the horse.”

The men were all in favor of this idea and quickly let the woman lead them back into the house. So they wouldn't be moving that wagon out of the way just yet. Drat, but this would certainly slow things down.

“We'd better hurry,” Miss St. Clement said. “She said she'd send a boy out to watch the horse. If she does, there's a chance that he'll see us leaving the alley. Then when our friend waiting for us at the other end comes down here hunting us, this boy will be able to tell that boy where we've gone.”

Sophie peered out into the alley. Fortunately there was no sign of any boys at either end. Yet.

“Let's go!”

They darted out, moving quickly toward the wagon. They'd squeeze by and be on their way in no time. Things were going to work out, after all.

“It's a good thing Lord Lindley didn't tell Mr. Fitzgelder we were hiding in that room last night,” Sophie said. “Else Mr. Fitzgelder might guess we were headed for Warwick to warn your friend and not even need one of these boys to tattle on us.”

It sounded foolish the moment she heard herself speak it. Miss St. Clement must have thought the same thing. She stopped in her tracks, wedged between the wagon and the cold brick of the nearest building. Sophie plowed into her, but the woman didn't even have to open her mouth for Sophie to know what she must be thinking.

“Then just why
did
Lindley send that boy after us?”

Sophie gulped. Indeed, that was a fair question. It was more than a fair question—it was the
only
question. If Lord Lindley had sent someone to follow them this far, then he would know they weren't simply running back to the theater district and whatever friends Miss St. Clement must have there. The logical assumption, then, would be that they were leaving town. And everyone knew the logical way to leave London—for anyone who did not have a carriage at their disposal, at least—was to pay passage on the mail coach.

That boy had trailed them this far; he likely could guess their destination. If he lost sight of them on the street, no doubt he'd simply go on ahead. He'd be waiting for them at the coaching house! Or worse, it wouldn't be merely a boy in Lindley's livery waiting there. She and Miss St. Clement might show up to find some of those grown men Mr. Fitzgelder seemed to favor for committing unthinkable acts of violence.

“Lindley must already have an idea where we're going,” Miss St. Clement said, confirming Sophie's fears.

“And he likely knows how we're planning to get there. They'll be expecting us.”

Miss St. Clement nodded, tapping her finger on her chin as she thought. It would seem that their valiant effort to save this Lord Rastmoor was thwarted before it even began. What were they to do?

What a pity they weren't wealthy like Lord Lindley; then they would have funds to hire a private carriage, one none of their pursuers might recognize. They could travel in comfort and happy anonymity.

And then she realized what she was gazing at.

“Miss St. Clement…”

“I'm trying to think of a way out of this, Sophie.”

“Yes, I know, but—”

“We simply must get to Warwick in time to warn Anthony!”

“Yes, I know, and I think—”

“If we only had another way out of town.”

“Miss St. Clement, I think I found us one.”

A simple nod of her head toward the wagon caught the young woman's attention. There, in the back of the wagon, was a huge clothespress lying on its back. From what the woman had said a few moments ago, they could expect to find it empty.

“Let's see if we'd fit!” Miss St. Clement said, moving back around to the rear of the wagon and hoisting herself up.

Sophie did her best to follow, but she was not as appropriately dressed for climbing as Miss St. Clement was. It hardly mattered. In a moment's time Miss St. Clement had hopped up and yanked open one of the heavy wooden doors on the cabinet. It was, sure enough, empty. There was more than enough space for two female stowaways.

Miss St. Clement smiled down at her and reached a hand to help her up.

“You're a genius, Miss Sophie,” she said. “Now hurry before anyone sees us.”

 

H
E HARDLY HAD TIME FOR IT, BUT
L
INDLEY OBLIGED
Eudora's note and was now seated in the woman's cloyingly perfumed sitting room. She kept him waiting a good ten minutes, and by the time she swept in, dressing gown floating and hair perfectly coiffed, his fingers hurt from drumming them on her center table.

“I'm really in quite a hurry, Eudora. What on earth is so pressing that you summoned me over here only to keep me cooling my heels so long?”

She was obviously unconcerned about his impatience. “Lindley in a hurry? That is rare indeed. Off to Fitzgelder's to visit a certain seamstress again?”

Oh, hell.
She couldn't have called him here just to discuss that, could she? Surely she knew him well enough to realize Fitzgelder had been misinformed when he brashly announced Lindley had been shagging Miss Darshaw.

“Eudora, I understand you have a certain fondness for the girl, but do you really suppose I would be so careless as all that? You know where my interests in Miss Darshaw lie.”

But Eudora simply smiled and glided into the seat across from him. He'd stood when she entered, so now he sat again. Bother, he really did not have the time for this foolishness.

“I've seen for some time now where your interests in Miss Darshaw lie. But I didn't expect you would stoop to forcing yourself on her.”

“What? I never!”

“Ah, so it's like that, is it? She was ever appalled when I suggested the notion of furthering acquaintances with any of my generous clients, but I always wondered if perhaps her mind could have been changed were you to ever enter into the discussion.”

“You mean you had men asking for her? And you would have happily procured her for them? Good Lord, Eudora. I thought you told me she was not here to be used that way!”