The Mercenary Major (16 page)

With that, the conversation ended, and the men were lost to their own musings.

Having turned Gilling away from his dressing room, sending the man directly to bed, Jack toweled his head vigorously, then tossed the towel aside. In the morning, they would put their information before Bertram to see if they could pull him back from the reckless, bitter life he was leading, but now, he could indulge in a few regrets about having left Victoria Carr in his bedroom.

She had been wrapped in shimmering rose silk, her hair in a loose braid, her eyes smoky-warm in the firelight, and he hadn’t touched her. His own restraint amazed him. He had thought all his virtuous impulses quite exhausted by the efforts of the past fortnight.

He stripped down to his linen drawers, stepped into his room, stopped. There she was, just where he’d left her, asleep in the chair. Heat flashed through him, and his loins tightened. Images of waking her with a kiss, opening her robe, and pulling her against him passed through his mind with startling rapidity. His heart pounded, and he did not dare breathe.

He whirled and strode back into the dressing room. With shaking hands he pulled on a pair of dry breeches and for good measure a shirt and a waistcoat. His hands fumbled with the tiny, silk-covered buttons of the waistcoat and the smooth buttons of the fall to his breeches, but he fastened them. Then with a deep breath he turned back to his bedroom.

He stood over her for a long moment, still tempted to wake her with a kiss. Sanity prevailed, and he merely touched her shoulder, speaking her name.

She lifted her head, opening her eyes and stretching deliriously. He gritted his teeth.

“You live dangerously, Miss Carr,” he said. “I know the saying about the lamb lying down with the lion, but you put it to the test tonight.”

She tried to stand too quickly and tottered. He took her elbow to steady her and regretted it at once.

“Thank you.” She studied him with those smoky eyes.

“For your sake I encourage you to return to your room at once.”

“You chose to misunderstand my views of marriage this morning,” she said, apparently intent on finishing what they started.

“Did I?” With a little pressure on her elbow, he coaxed her toward the door.

“Yes.” She was coming more fully awake. “You chose to believe I would not make a marriage where there was unequal fortune, when what I meant was that I would not make a marriage where there was unequal love.”

“To you, then, love is more important than money?” It was proving harder than he’d anticipated to let go of her arm. The flesh above her elbow was intriguingly soft under the silk, and the scent of her, warm and faintly spicy, was stirring him uncomfortably.

“Of course,” she said.

“Then do without the money.”

She pulled her elbow from his grasp, looking offended.

“Spend a day with me penniless in the streets of London. Then I’ll believe you are indifferent to a man’s fortune as long as his love is true.”

He could not believe he’d asked it of her. He watched her face, watched her temptation, watched her weigh the objections, saw the moment when she began to consider how it might be done.

She looked up at him, her gray eyes taking on their steel aspect.

“If I agree to this . . . adventure, will you show me what you are hiding in that drawer?”

She pointed to the place where he had pinned her against the lowboy, and he thought of the three small portraits he had removed from the wall. If he showed them to her, they need not trap him. She probably had no memory of the ring around his neck and would not recognize it on his mother’s hand in the painting. The resemblance between them could be dismissed as accidental. He nodded.

“What day then?”

“Friday,” he suggested.

**** 13 ****

“Y
ou’ll do,” Jack said. A raised eyebrow was Miss Carr’s reply. They were standing in the yard of the White Bear Inn, Piccadilly, where they had agreed to begin their day in the streets. Looking her over from head to toe, he had to admit she had contrived to fit herself to the challenge. A brown silk bonnet that could not quite hide its quality was the only obvious sign of wealth on his heiress this morning. She wore sensible half-boots on her feet, a cinnamon-colored kerseymere overdress atop a plain muslin, a wool shawl as dark as ripening blackberries, and brown wool mittens. He told her to wait for him while he arranged to have some money held for their return.

Victoria reached in her pocket and felt the little packet of linen-wrapped coins she had concealed there. She would not use them, of course, but they would be there, a safeguard to which she had agreed for Katie’s sake. Without Katie’s connivance the scheme would have been unthinkable, but Katie had been willing to further their plans from the beginning. “You will like Cousin Jack so much better after you spend a day with him,” she assured Victoria. So Katie was with the Phillips girls, while Letty, Lady Dorward, and Edward Carr believed Victoria there, too. And the Phillipses, if Katie was resolute in telling the necessary lies, believed Victoria with her father. The truth would probably come out in the end, but by then Victoria was sure she would have proved herself, and it would be the impostor’s turn to reveal his secret.

“Ready?”

She started as his voice broke in on her thoughts. “Where are we going?” she asked.

‘To the Spa Fields meeting. Everyone in London’s invited. It’s about two miles that way.” He pointed northeast. “But a bit farther for us, if we’re to avoid crossing the worst rookery in London.” He looked down at her boots peeking from under the edge of her skirts and grinned.

It was that grin, with the distinctive pucker it added to his cheek, that she most wanted to wipe off his face. His feet bore sturdy, well-broken-in boots, and, of course, he had no skirts to encumber him. He wore the remains of a dark-green uniform, the jacket mended at the cuffs and stripped of the officer’s sash and lace, the trousers faded. She smiled and drew her shawl tightly about her. He might have the advantage of the stronger footwear, but she would no doubt be warmer.

By the time they reached the edge of the crowd gathered at Spa Fields, Victoria felt that any advantages she had brought to the contest had been lost in the miles of twisting streets and rough pavement they had covered. His natural stride was longer than hers, and when she tried to match it, her skirts tangled or her boots slipped into cracks or ruts. Walking kept her warm, but when they stopped even briefly, a cold wind pierced the layers of her clothing. Her bonnet, which she had chosen for its plainness, now seemed an ostentatious bit of finery in a gathering where children were barefoot. And the most embarrassing evidence of her inability to endure a bit of hardship was that she was hungry, when she had eaten not two hours earlier.

Vendors were hawking oranges, gingerbread, and meat pies, and the tantalizing smells roused an answering grumble in her stomach.

“Hungry?” Jack asked.

“I’ll be fine,” she told him. “What has brought all these people here?”

“Hunger.”

She gave him a quick glance to see if he was teasing.

“Seriously,” he said. “Miss Coape’s soup kitchens can’t begin to feed everybody, and the distressed citizens of London want that fellow up there to take a petition to the Prince.” He pointed out a man on the balconied upper story of an inn on the south side of the field. The gentleman was speaking to the people and waving a large red, white, and green flag to their cheers. “Hunt,” said Jack.

Victoria watched. She had heard, of course, of Orator Hunt. The papers had reported his effect on crowds and urged masters to keep their servants from attending this very meeting. The man was far from impressive in appearance, but he had his listeners with him.

Victoria’s stomach grumbled again. Jack Amberly grinned. She gritted her teeth. “We could find Miss Coape’s kitchen,” she suggested.

“It takes a hapenny to get served there,” he replied. “But we can eat here if you want to.”

“How?” Victoria asked.

“Easy,” he said. “I’ll get you an orange.”

He walked off toward a vendor with a wide, flat box of oranges hung round his neck on a cord. The man was shouting his price and doing business with a few of the more respectable-looking people about. Jack Amberly slipped into the crowd and emerged on the other side of the vendor, approaching him with the flow of people at the fringe of the gathering. She saw him stop and talk to the man as another customer was paying, saw the man laugh at something the major said, and then Jack Amberly was strolling her way. When he reached her, he took her elbow, turning her away from the orange seller. With his other hand he produced an orange.

“You stole that orange,” she exclaimed, stopping abruptly. He urged her forward with the hand around her upper arm. “How?”

“Quick hands and plenty of practice,” he said. When they’d distanced themselves from the vendor, Jack Amberly released her elbow and began to peel the orange. The sweet, fresh smell made her mouth water. “Have some,” he offered.

“No.”

He stopped walking and looked at her, compelling her to meet his gaze. “Miss Carr, this
is
how the truly penniless survive.” He held out a section of bright, sweet fruit, but she shook her head.

A moment later a small boy, looking more like an animate pile of rags, erupted from between the legs of the crowd, stumbled past them, caught his balance, and ran on. “Thief,” a man yelled, puffing up behind the boy.

Jack looked at his heiress. “What do you suppose he stole?” he asked. “A gingerbread cake?”

“You think I should condone theft?” she asked.

“I think turning down the orange on principle proves nothing. When you are on the streets, you do what you must to survive.”

“As you did?”

“As I did.” He offered her another section of orange, and she took it.

A few minutes later his stomach growled, and she glanced at him.

“I don’t suppose I could talk you into stealing a meat pie for us,” he said.

She gave him an appalled glance, and he grinned.

“No? I did not think so.”

Jack was proud of his heiress. She had endured their long walk and the hungry hours standing in the crowd listening to the speakers without complaint. There had been an awkward moment when he had pointed out a line of women and children at a row of sacking screens. She looked at the necessary arrangements with some distaste but started toward the end of the queue. Then he had stopped her, saying, “It will cost a farthing.”

“What?” she said, turning back to him.

“You’ll need a farthing,” he repeated. He had bent the rules of their game just enough to have a few coins in his pocket and reached for one.

She was walking on, looking thoughtful. “There is
no
dignity in being poor, is there?” she asked him.

“None,” he agreed. But he stopped her and pressed a farthing into her mittened hand. “Go on.” And in the end she’d compromised, accepting the coin.

Perhaps she was distracting him more than he realized because he had seen no evidence of the Sprats, and only once had he been conscious of any particular danger. His voice spoke to him, and he had the feeling they were being watched. There were far too many people about for him to identify the source of his uneasiness, so he led Miss Carr into the thick of the crowd, and the feeling faded.

“Is that your friend?” she asked about mid-afternoon as they were making a second circuit of the gathering. Jack had described Bertram and asked her to watch for the young man. “Talking to the man with the pointed beard?”

Jack kept his head turned toward her while he let his gaze slide over the crowd to Bertram. She was right. It was Bertram, and he was with the watcher.

“Tell me when they part,” Jack said, keeping his face averted from the pair.

“Who is the other man?” she wanted to know.

“I need to find out. I followed him one day, and Gilling followed him another; he keeps most interesting company.”

“The bearded one is walking away,” she warned him.

“Willing to help me stop Bertram?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He gave her the quick outline of a plan, and she set off to accost the captain. Jack circled around through the crowd, coming up behind Bertram just as Miss Carr was saying with forced conviction, “But I am sure we are acquainted, sir.”

“Bertram,” said Jack.

His friend whirled to face him, staggering as the sudden move unbalanced him, and sending a wild glance in the direction the spy had taken. “Bandit?”

“He’s gone, George,” Jack said, putting out a hand to steady his friend and withdrawing it quickly. “Time to talk.”

Bertram straightened and looked warily at Victoria.

“Captain Bertram, Miss Carr,” said Jack, looking at her. He had reason to be proud of his heiress again. By not so much as a flicker in her gaze did she respond to the empty right sleeve of George Bertram’s coat.

The captain acknowledged the introduction with a stiff bow, his face expressionless. “There’s nothing to say, Bandit.”

Jack shrugged and looked away. “Then suppose I say something. I followed your bearded friend from the Swan to Lonville’s house one day, and last week Gilling followed him to Bow Street.”

“Bow Street?” Bertram’s eyes registered confusion.

“The man’s a Home Office spy, George,” Jack said.

“Damn!” said Bertram. He looked wildly about, and for a minute Jack thought the younger man might bolt. Then he threw back his head and blew out a long breath. When he looked back at them, he was sober as he had not been since Jack’s arrival in London. “Let’s talk, Bandit.”

They made their way to the northern edge of the crowd and settled in a mild depression in some withered grass out of the wind. Jack made Victoria Carr lean against him and wrapped his arms around her. “For warmth,” he told her. But when she took his bare hands between her mittened ones and tucked the ends of her shawl around them, what he felt was heat.

It took an hour to hear what George Bertram knew of the Jack Sprats. They were mostly soldiers and sailors, turned off without pay, out of work, and hating anyone who was living and eating well these days, especially anyone with a government pension. It had seemed a lark at first when George had entered the back room at the Swan where one group of the Sprats met. He had wanted to complain, to vent his spleen about the war, and the way they’d all been treated on their return as if the country couldn’t be bothered with them. The Sprats were willing to listen. Only lately had their meetings made him uneasy, but then he’d drink a bit more and forget. They were planning something, but even the members who gathered in the back room had been told little more than to be ready to play their parts.