Valentine (40 page)

“An hour? Two?”

“Perhaps half an hour, my lord.”

“Is there something strange about that?”

“We were engaged to drive out together,” Emily said. “Theo doesn’t usually forget engagements.”

“I see.” He shrugged. “Well, I’m certain she’ll be back soon. What do you think of that claret, Edward?”

“Excellent, sir.” Edward’s mind was whirling as foreboding became conviction. He knew exactly what had driven their engagement from Theo’s mind. He knew where she had gone, unaccompanied and presumably in a hired hackney.

He put his glass on the table. “Emily, I must ask you to excuse me. I … I’ve suddenly recollected a most urgent appointment, with … with my tailor.” Under Emily’s astonished gaze he pushed past the butler and almost ran from the house.

“Now what in the world is going on?” Stoneridge demanded of his butler and sister-in-law, both of whom were looking confused.

“I couldn’t say, sir.” Foster bowed and left the library.

Emily regarded her brother-in-law somewhat nervously, but she could think of nothing to say. She had the feeling she should improvise some reasonable explanation for Edward’s odd departure, but she wasn’t a quick thinker at the best of times, and under Stoneridge’s penetrating gray gaze she was completely tongue-tied.

“Tell me something, Emily,” Stoneridge said, deceptively casual. “Does Edward often recollect appointments in that fashion?”

“Occasionally,” Emily mumbled.

“Mmm.” He stroked his chin, frowning. “But would I be right in thinking that those occasions generally have something to do with Theo?”

Emily’s quick flush was answer enough, although she tried to think of some disclaimer.

“So just what did he suddenly guess my wife was up to?”

Emily shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“But you’d agree with me that he’d suddenly had a flash of insight?”

“Possibly. They … they’re very close. They always have been.” She was beginning to feel like one of Rosie’s pinned butterflies and thought bitterly of her flaneé and her sister, who’d abandoned her to this seemingly gentle but nerve-racking interrogation. She didn’t even know what she wasn’t supposed to say.

Sylvester strolled across to the window, where Edward had been standing a minute earlier. Maybe the position would bring him the same inspiration. Lady Belmont’s barouche stood at the door, the coachman dozing on the box, his docile carriage horses standing quietly in the sunshine.

“May I ask where you were going with Theo?”

“To call upon Mrs. Lacey,” Emily said, happy to answer this unproblematic question. “Edward was going to invite Jonathan to accompany him to Tattersall’s tomorrow. He’s intending to purchase another riding horse and thought that Jonathan might meet some useful people.”

Another instance of Edward evincing family solidarity, Sylvester reflected. And presumably he’d just gone hotfoot to Theo’s assistance?

Prickles of unease ran up his spine. Why would Theo need assistance?

And then it came to him, crystalline in its clarity. Could she have taken Edward into her confidence about the visit to the Fisherman’s Rest?

What did he mean,
could
she? Of course she would have done so. About that and all her private speculations—whatever they might be. Not for one minute did he believe that just because he’d refused to discuss his own plans, Theo had ceased to speculate. She’d yielded to his silence easily …
too damn easily. He could see the obstinate set of her mouth, the lift of her pointed chin that always meant: You may believe what you wish, but I have my own ideas.

Theo had returned to the Fisherman’s Rest.

He’d told her as clearly as he knew how that he would not tolerate another such reckless excursion, and she’d taken not a blind bit of notice of him. But it was his own fault. How the hell had he ever been fool enough to trust that Theo would obey orders?

The strength of his fury astounded him. By disobeying his direct injunction and interfering in his private affairs, she had recklessly put herself in grave jeopardy. Without a moment’s reflection she had plunged alone into the rat-infested sewer that was Dock Street, where the desperate face of poverty informed the brutalized souls of its inhabitants. They would kill her for her kid gloves and toss her body into the Thames without a qualm.

And as if that weren’t enough, she was wading hip deep into the quicksand of Vimiera and right into the path of a dangerously desperate man.

“Emily, permit me to escort you to your carriage,” he said abruptly, turning toward her.

Emily quailed before the blazing countenance. The scar that she thought she’d become so used to she barely noticed it anymore stood out, a livid white line. The cool eyes were now liquid fire, and his mouth was a taut line.

“There’s no need,” she said. “Foster will escort me.”

He ignored her words. “Come.”

Emily rose immediately. What had Theo done to cause this terrifying transformation? On the whole, these days Emily was quite at ease with her brother-in-law, but at the moment she thought he was the most frightening man she’d ever met … even more so than her grandfather in one of his rages.

She practically ran ahead of him out of the library and out of the house. His large hand under her elbow almost lifted her
into the barouche so that she felt as fragile and vulnerable as a leaf in the wind. She’d seen him handle Theo in this way, lifting her in and out and on and off things with a brisk lack of ceremony that her sister never seemed to mind. But Emily wouldn’t repeat the experience for all the tea in China. She sat back with relief as Stoneridge ordered her driver to move off and her brother-in-law’s black countenance retreated.

Stoneridge turned back to the house, running up the steps, his clipped voice giving orders before he’d reached the hall. “Foster, have my curricle brought round again. But not the chestnuts, they’ve had a long run already.”

“Yes, my lord.” The butler kept his expression impassive before his employer’s tightly reined anger, but like Emily his mind was filled with furious speculation.

Five minutes later Stoneridge was on his way to Dock Street, driving a team of roans, forcing from his mind the dreadful images of what might even now be happening on Dock Street as he drove at breakneck speed through the narrow streets, oblivious of the stares and curses from startled pedestrians as they leaped out of the way of the white-faced man with the livid scar on his forehead.

Neil Gerard stared at Jud O’Flannery’s disfigured countenance. His ex-sergeant was grinning, revealing his one black tooth. “Cat got yer tongue, cap’n?” he inquired with mock solicitude.

“I don’t know what the devil you’re talking about.” Neil tried to sound angry and contemptuous, but it came out more as a bluster, his fear slippery beneath the bold front, like ice under snow. He could feel the eyes on his back as Jud’s customers drank their ale and regarded the scene at the bar counter with squint-eyed curiosity. His gaze fixed on the tavern keeper’s massive fists, curled loosely on the counter. A pelt of dark hair covered the backs thickly and sprouted over the knuckles.

One blow from those fists would put a man under the table
with a broken jaw. The grip of those fingers would squeeze the life out of a man in a minute. And one flick of his eyes would bring the group of ruffians to their feet, moving across the tap room toward Neil Gerard.

“Well, I ’as me sources,” Jud was saying in a musing tone, but his one green eye was sharp with a glint of sardonic humor. He knew Neil Gerard was scared. The man scared easily. No one knew that better than Sergeant O’Flannery.

“An’ like I was sayin’, these sources tell me that you’ve been patronizin’ another tavern. Quite ’urt me feelins that did, cap’n, sir.” He took a healthy swig of ale from his tankard. “You comes in ’ere, regular like, never takes a drink or says a civil word to an old comrade in arms, an’ then I ’ear you goes into the Fisherman’s Rest an’ drinks and chats somethin’ chronic in there. Better class of folk Long Meg ’as? That it, cap’n sir?”

Neil felt sweat break out on his forehead. He wanted to wipe it off, but to do so would draw attention to his fear. How much did Jud know?

“A man’s entitled to drink where he pleases,” he said, hearing how feeble it sounded. He plunged his hand into his pocket and took out his purse. “Here.” He shook out the five golden guineas and turned to leave.

“Jest a minute, cap’n, sir.” Jud’s voice had hardened.

Reluctantly, Neil turned back. “Well?”

“I wouldn’t like t’think you’ve bin lookin’ fer a way to stop this nice little arrangement we ’ave. Now, you wouldn’t be doin’ any thin’ like that, would you, cap’n, sir?”

Suddenly, he leaned over the counter, so close Neil could smell the beer and the reek of decaying teeth on his breath. An arm shot out, grabbing the captain by the fine starched cravat that had taken him a full half hour to tie to his satisfaction.

“You wouldn’t be doin’ any thin’ like that, would you?” Jud repeated in a fine mist of saliva. Neil tried to turn his head away from the menacing stare.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said again.

Jud nodded his head slowly, his grip tightening on the cravat. “I think p’raps one of me friends could explain it better.” He pushed his captive backward with a violent shove, and Neil went reeling into the arms of a grinning henchman, who picked him up as if he were a baby and threw him across the room. Neil crashed into a table. A mug of ale went flying, its contents spilling over his immaculate driving cape and dripping onto his buckskins.

“Eh, careless!” someone bellowed as he struggled to his knees. “Spillin’ me drink like that.” A man, red-faced with mock indignation, grabbed him by the cravat and hauled him to his feet. Holding him steady, he drove his fist into Gerard’s jaw.

Neil saw stars, tasted blood, felt the ultimate humiliation as warm liquid trickled down his leg. Then he was released amid a burst of raucous laughter.

“Be seein’ you next week, cap’n, sir,” Jud called cheerily after him as he stumbled out the door into the crisp, sunny afternoon. The lad who was holding his horses stared in unabashed curiosity at the gentleman, whose right eye was rapidly swelling, blood trickling down his chin, staining his torn cravat. The reek of beer and urine wafted from him as he cursed the lad, knocking him aside as he stumbled up onto the driving seat of his curricle.

“’Ere, what about me fee, guv?” the lad cried. “That’s me pa in the Black Dog.”

Neil threw a vile curse at him, but he had no desire to renew the acquaintance of anyone in the Black Dog. He dug a sixpence from his pocket and hurled it to the ground at the feet of the grinning lad, who scooped it up and dashed off down the street before anyone bigger and stronger decided to relieve him of his earnings.

Neil whipped up his horses, and they plunged forward in the narrow alley. The leader caught a hoof in an uneven cobble and almost went down to his knees. Gerard hauled
back on the reins and tried to get a grip on himself. Physical violence terrified him. The simple threat of violence had reduced him to a gibbering wreck as a child and made him the perfect target for the bullies who stalked the halls of Westminster School. How he’d envied Sylvester Gilbraith, who, even as a ten-year-old new boy, had faced the tormentors with fists and tongue and refused to be intimidated. They’d beaten him often, but he’d always bounced back, and finally they’d left him alone. Not so Neil Gerard, who’d suffered hells during those years that he could barely endure remembering.

And it had just happened again. At the hands of a group of dockside ruffians, laughing at him and enjoying his terror even as they’d beaten him. And he’d have to go back next week and face the grinning Jud O’Flannery. Next week and the next week and the next week. An eternity of humiliation stretched ahead, because he could no longer look for hired assassins in this neighborhood.

He was passing the end of Dock Street, heading for Tower Hill. His eye darted down the street toward the Fisherman’s Rest. Who had recognized him there as Jud’s gentleman mark? Someone in that fetid hole had reported his negotiations to O’Flannery. The man he’d sent into Dorset had been angry when he’d refused to pay for failure and therefore to compensate him for the time and trouble he’d taken. The man had cursed him and threatened him with vengeance. But Neil had dismissed it as so much bluster.

A hackney was drawn up outside the Fisherman’s Rest. A most unusual sight. He watched as a cloaked figure jumped lightly to the cobbles. A woman. Curiosity for a minute made him forget his throbbing jaw and the foul condition of his raiment. The woman was saying something to the jarvey, her head tilted as she looked up at the box. The hood of her cloak fell back, revealing blue-black hair.

Now, what in the name of all that was good was the Countess of Stoneridge doing at the Fisherman’s Rest?
Alone!

If Sylvester paid another visit, it wouldn’t be surprising.
He’d learned nothing from the first visit, and he was bound to try again. Not that he’d discover anything. Neil was never going to cross that threshold again, and no one could put a name to him, or even an accurate description.

But what was his wife doing here, alone? Looking for information for her husband? It was extraordinary. And he couldn’t believe that Stoneridge had countenanced it. He’d made no attempt to hide his annoyance when she’d appeared before. And no reasonable man could blame him. Wives didn’t follow their husbands to such places. And they most certainly didn’t go to them alone.

An idea glimmered as he started his horses again. Lady Stoneridge might well be worth cultivating seriously. Supposing she could provide the route to her husband? She was obviously unconventional and indiscreet. How else would one characterize her presence at the Fisherman’s Rest? Insanely impulsive? Recklessly courageous? Such a person could surely be led up the paths of fatal indiscretion with the right carrot. If he could find the right carrot.

He suddenly understood that he didn’t have to remove Gilbraith, merely neutralize him. Blackmail was the way to end his own calvary at Jud’s hands. If he was certain that Gilbraith would never open his mouth about Vimiera, even if he knew the truth, he could afford to tell Jud what he could do with his threat of exposure. Well, perhaps not that. The thought of such an encounter flooded him with a nauseating terror. But his visits to the Black Dog could cease without explanation.