The Bed and the Bachelor (10 page)

Wishing once more that he’d quite literally been faster out of the box, he mustered a pleasant smile and reached out to shake the other man’s hand. Like the time before, he found Saxon’s grip as firm and forthright as the viscount was himself.

“How do you do, my lord? Miss Manning?” Drake began. “I trust both of you are enjoying tonight’s performance?”

“Very much,” Lord Saxon stated. “I think Verity in particular is relishing the experience. This is her first time seeing Shakespeare performed in a real theater.”

Drake turned his gaze toward Miss Manning. “Then how fortunate that the players are so skilled this evening. Bad acting can ruin even the Bard’s illustrious work.”

“Oh, I cannot imagine that,” Verity Manning stated with enough enthusiasm that her sweep of blond curls danced around her head. “To my mind, Shakespeare is always grand, no matter who may recite his words.”

“Perhaps you are correct, Miss Manning,” Drake said with a polite inclination of his head, “and it is I who underestimate the power of the realm’s, if not the world’s, finest playwright. But come, you mentioned a wish to renew your acquaintance with my family. They are just along here in the Clybourne box. Let me show you both the way.”

Drake turned and led their small party forward, taking care not to offer his arm to Verity Manning lest the gesture be seen as courtly encouragement.

“The duchess is here tonight, I hope,” Saxon asked after a moment. “The dowager, your mama, I mean.”

“Yes, Mama is here. She rarely misses an opportunity to attend the theater when she is in Town. It is one of her favorite kinds of entertainment.”

Lord Saxon smiled. “Ava was always partial to theatricals when she was a girl, so I am not surprised to hear she still loves them.” At Drake’s inquiring look, Saxon continued. “We knew each other many years ago, you see.”

“So Mama mentioned,” Drake said, studying the other man and suddenly wondering at the connection. “She said you were old friends. However, I hadn’t realized you’d known each other for so many years.”

A rather wistful expression appeared on Saxon’s face. “We lost track of each other until recently, when I brought Verity to Town. But yes, your mama and I are very old friends. Very old friends indeed.”

As Drake digested that sliver of information, the three of them arrived at the entrance to the Clybourne box. Mallory, Adam, Meg and Cade were gone, having apparently decided to stretch their legs. He realized they must have walked in the opposite direction since he hadn’t happened upon them in the hallway. Edward, Claire, Claire’s younger sister, Ella, and Mama remained inside, however, along with a trio of young gentlemen who were clearly vying for Ella’s attention.

Perhaps one of Ella’s beaux might take a fancy to Miss Manning,
Drake thought with a hopeful turn of mind as they went inside.

Over the next several minutes, however, Drake found himself chatting with Verity Manning and to his dismay ended up being compelled to ask her to go driving with him the following afternoon. The invitation had stuck in his throat, but with everyone in the box looking on, he could do nothing but speak the words. To do otherwise would give offense, and even though he had no interest in pursuing Verity Manning romantically, he didn’t want to hurt or embarrass her. She was a nice young woman and merely needed to find her way in Society. Perhaps a drive in the park with him would lend her a small bit of cachet—although it would be small indeed, since as a younger son he was far from a prime catch. But he would be kind, as his mother had asked him to be once before, and hope that Miss Manning met someone else soon and forgot all about wanting him as a suitor.

Relieved when the interval finally drew to a close, he resumed his seat. Taking out his notepad as the action began once more on the stage, he thumbed through the pages, slowing when he came upon the one of Anne Greenway. Studying her features, he found himself wishing he hadn’t come out after all.

Paying barely any attention to the play, he waited to go home.

Chapter 9

N
ot long after sunrise the following morning, Sebastianne strolled along the rows of fruit, vegetable and flower stalls that lined the streets of Covent Garden. In the air drifted a symphony of fragrances ranging from sharp to sweet. Tangy cucumbers and earthy potatoes, exotic pineapples and bright-skinned lemons, heavenly bunches of dried lavender and the delicate perfume of lilies of the valley mingled with the less harmonious odors of dirt, refuse and human sweat.

But such was the case in cramped thoroughfares like these, the area crowded elbow to ankle with merchants, tradesmen and tinkers, all come to market in hopes of selling their wares to the throngs of interested customers there to browse.

Curiously, she’d learned from the staff that another variety of commerce took place along these same streets after the market closed for the day. In the afternoons and evenings, the denizens of a different type of society emerged, the area a notorious haven for prostitutes, press-gangs and unscrupulous sorts of all kinds. But at this early hour of the morning, the whores, pimps and thugs that roamed the darkened streets were fast asleep in their beds and of no threat to her.

Nevertheless, Jem had accompanied her on her shopping excursion, the stable lad driving them in a well-sprung dog cart that was at her disposal for such errands.

Generally, Mrs. Tremble made the once-a-week trip to the market, which she undertook in addition to the daily deliveries of meat and produce that were brought to the town house’s kitchen door early each morning.

“It’s good, sensible practice,” the older woman said, declaring that a savvy cook needed to get out periodically and inspect the goods with her own two eyes—and to verify what the market prices were as well.

In some households, the outside marketing was the job of the housekeeper rather than the cook, but Sebastianne had been content to let the old arrangement stand. Yesterday, however, Mrs. Tremble told her that she needed to visit her sister, who had just been brought to childbed, and would Sebastianne be willing to do the weekly shopping? Eager for a chance to see more of London, she had agreed with alacrity.

After arriving in the market square, Jem left her to shop while he went to buy some leather and a few tools for repairing reins, saddles and the like. She also suspected, based on a comment she’d overheard him make to Harvey before they left, that he planned stop off in one of the numerous taverns that lined the streets near the Piazza and indulge in a dark, frothy pint of ale.

“I’ll find ye,” he promised upon seeing her doubtful look when she learned they were to split up. “And don’t worry none over loading any of the heavy items,” he said. “Let the merchants hold ’em and I’ll be along to do the lifting.”

Mostly reassured, she let him go on his way.

Turning, a wide wicker basket held over one arm, she went to inspect the market. She couldn’t help but be curious to see how it compared with the wonderful
marchés volants
in Paris, the ones she and Maman used to visit when she’d been a young teenager.

After a few minutes, she found herself marveling at the variety and freshness of the items for sale—a veritable cornucopia of produce all to be had for the price of a few coins. But she was shopping for Lord Drake and his household, she reminded herself, careful to confine her purchases to items she and Mrs. Tremble had agreed upon prior to the cook’s departure.

After buying several bunches of herbs tied together with bits of string, she paused in front of a fruit stand and inspected a crate nearly overflowing with plump, brilliantly hued strawberries—the very first of the season.

“Free samples to ye, miss,” the seller offered, clearly aware that she must be employed in a good home and capable of bringing him profitable custom. “Ye’ll find none sweeter,” he promised, his encouraging smile as wide as the big, calloused hands he held pressed against his round, apron-covered belly.

Tempted by the beautiful red color, decorative green tops and a sweet fragrance she could detect even from where she stood, she accepted his offer. The berry burst in her mouth like candy, juicy and sweet against her appreciative tongue.

He was right. The berries were excellent.

Swallowing the last of the fruit with a smile, she met the grocer’s confident gaze. “They are delicious indeed. How much for a pound?”

She haggled with the skill of a seasoned Frenchwoman, getting a price both she and the merchant knew to be fair. With a promise from the grocer to hold the berries until Jem came by with the dog cart, Sebastianne continued on her way in search of a variety of delicate lettuces and the best beets and carrots she could find.

She rounded the corner of one set of stalls and was moving toward the next a couple minutes later when a male hand curved over her elbow.

“Could I interest you in some oranges, madam?” asked a low, throaty voice.

“No, I’m sorry, thank you,” she said automatically, trying to pull away.

But the hand only tightened, his fingers pushing into her tender skin and muscle in a way that was just short of painful. She looked up and stared into the long, leathery face and close-set black eyes of a man she’d hoped never to see again. Her heart pumped out a thick, heavy beat. “Vacheau,” she whispered.

He didn’t react by so much as blinking. “I believe you have me confused with someone else. My name is Jones. But come, the items I have to show you are just around the corner, along that lane.”

The lane—more of an alley really—was dark and narrow, with only a pair of stalls near the entrance. The sellers, she noticed, were conveniently absent. She couldn’t tell what lay beyond the opening, but it looked dank and unwholesome, the sort of place murderers—and spies—liked to haunt.

For a second she considered pulling away and breaking into a run, but she knew it would only attract unwanted attention and do nothing to change her circumstances. Still, she couldn’t help but cast one last glance around, searching for Jem.

“If you’re looking for your companion, he’s still having a drink,” the cold voice said in faultless English. “Come, while we have time. I won’t keep you long.”

Sebastianne fought down the need to tremble, knowing she had no choice but to obey. Her footsteps leaden, she walked toward the lane.

The man she knew as Vacheau followed at a leisurely pace.

The alleyway proved as dark and foul as she’d expected, the paving stones littered with refuse and other unmentionables that cast up a dreadful stink. Taking a clean handkerchief out of her pocket, she held it to her nose and mouth.

“It is unpleasant, I agree,” he said at her gesture, “but we are less likely to be disturbed here.”

She knew he must be right, for who would want to dwell in such a place?

They came to a spot where a patch of watery sunlight managed to slip past steeply pitched roofs that were so close they nearly closed out the sky. She stopped, muffling a cry when a rat scurried suddenly along the wall near her feet and disappeared into a crack at the base of the foundation.

She shuddered, a flash of anger burning in her stomach as she lowered the handkerchief away from her face. “I am here, Vacheau. Say what it is you have to say and be quick. I don’t care to make up explanations when I am missed.”

His mouth curved into an unpleasant smile that showed his surprisingly straight white teeth. “I told you, my name is Jones. Do not forget.”

“Very well,
Monsieur Jones.
Proceed.”

“It is you who needs to proceed. Have you found the cipher?”

Her chest tightened. “Yes.”

His black eyes lit with interest. “And is it in your possession?”

She hesitated, her stomach churning again, only this time on a queasy wave. “No.”

He scowled. “Why ‘no’? If you are aware of its location, then what is the cause of the delay?”

“He keeps it locked in a safe and has the key in his possession. I’m trying to figure out a way to obtain it without his knowledge.”

And how I am going to do that, I still have no idea
, she thought on a note of desperation.

“If it weren’t for the trouble it would cause, I could just kill him and take the key,” Vacheau suggested aloud. “But I am afraid my superiors would not approve.”

Sebastianne stifled a gasp, gooseflesh forming on her arms at the thought of any violence coming to Lord Drake. “I shall get the cipher,” she said, somehow managing to speak in an even tone. “Do not be concerned. It is merely a matter of conceiving of a workable plan.”

Vacheau’s eyes narrowed, hard as flint. “See to it you
conceive
that plan soon. Time is growing short, and the war does not go as well as we had hoped. We need that information.”

She nodded. “A few more weeks, and I’ll have it copied and in my possession. To hurry now will only alert his lordship and his servants to my true purpose for being in the house.”

“You have exactly one month and no more. After that, I may be able to persuade the others of the wisdom in choosing an alternate plan.”

Harming Lord Drake, he means.

Assuming he could get to him.

Based on her short acquaintance with her employer, she’d come to realize that he was no vapid lord, who quaked in his polished dress pumps at the mere mention of violence. In spite of his cerebral nature, Lord Drake seemed more than capable of taking care of himself in a fight—even a dirty, bare-knuckle street brawl. But any man could be murdered if the assassin was skilled enough—and had the element of surprise on his side. From what she knew of Vacheau, he was capable of both.

“It will be done, you may rest assured,” she said.

An icy smile curved over his lips. “If it isn’t, remember the consequences. The Army is badly in need of soldiers these days, and your brothers are of an excellent age to serve.”

“They are only ten and twelve, you immoral bastard!” she said, unable to contain the outburst.

“
Ah, ah!
Such language,” he reprimanded with a back-and-forth wag of one finger. “One loathes to employ such measures as conscripting boys, but the war must be waged, after all.”

Yes, appalling as it might be, she knew, such innocents were used as fodder and decoys: boys too young and too afraid to know how to protect themselves from English guns and bayonets. She’d even heard rumors that such children were preyed upon by their fellow troops, exploited because of their weakness and vulnerability, robbed of food, clothing—and worse.

“As for your papa,” Vacheau continued in a matter-of-fact voice, “I am surprised they haven’t sent him to prison for his continued incompetence. Even now, he refuses to aid us, claiming he is unable to comprehend this code of Byron’s. But I think he comprehends far more than he says, and were it not for the few friends he has left in the government, he would be made to put that brain of his to better use.”

“He is an old man and not able to work the way he used to,” she defended, in spite of knowing that her father was as clear-minded as ever when it came to his mathematical endeavors.

Still, while it was true that her father had no great love for the Emperor or his war, she felt sure he would have replicated Lord Drake’s work by now if he could. Given the threats and hardships their family had endured over the past couple of years, he would have done nearly anything to see her and her brothers freed from the schemes and coercions of vile
cochons
like Raoul Vacheau.

It was the only time she’d ever lied to her father, knowing he would be adamantly opposed to her coming to England to steal the cipher. But she’d been unable to see any other way out of their dilemma. If she didn’t comply, Luc and Julien would be sent to fight and likely die on some forlorn battlefield, while their father would be thrown into prison. A long bout with pneumonia last winter had already weakened his lungs, and she knew incarceration would be tantamount to a death sentence.

And so she’d concocted a story about a sick cousin in Paris who desperately needed her aid. She’d worried her father would see through her ruse, but worn down with lingering grief over her mother’s death and the stresses of the war, he’d accepted her tale with few questions asked. Her brothers had taken a bit more convincing, particularly Julien, who understood far more than he ought for a boy of twelve, but in the end they’d accepted her story and waved her on her way with promises to return as soon as may be.

As for herself . . . well, she didn’t want to imagine what men like Vacheau might do to her should she find herself alone in the world. Prison, she suspected, would be far preferable to the degradation they had in store.

She couldn’t suppress a shudder at the idea.

“You wouldn’t want your papa sent away, now would you?” Vacheau taunted softly. “Or your dear
petits frères
either.”

“No,” she whispered in a strangled tone. Forcing her chin high, she met his soulless black gaze. “Are we finished now? I will be missed for certain if I delay much longer.”

Displaying his teeth in a cruel smile, he gestured with an arm toward the entrance to the alleyway. “You are right, you ought to run along. Don’t forget. One month and no more.”