Conspiring with a Rogue (11 page)

She rushed toward the stairs to find Audrey. If Audrey didn’t reach the tailor before Sin, all could be lost. Whitney climbed the stairs two at a time and hurried toward Sally’s bedchamber. Once at the door, she barged into the room without knocking.

Sally’s maid gave a frightened squeal. “You shouldn’t be in here, sir. This is Her Grace’s private chambers.”

“Yes, yes.” Whitney nodded and backed out the door. “Where might the duchess and Lady Audrey be?”

“Gone on a picnic at the insistence of Her Grace’s mama, the Marchioness of McCallum.”

Whitney closed her lips over a scream. With Audrey gone, she would have to slip out unnoticed and visit the tailor herself. She raced down the stairs and nearly tripped down the last three. “Blast him,” she muttered under her breath.

“Did you say something?”

She whipped her gaze away from the floor and gaped at her smirking cousin. Why was he still here? “I said I’m surprised you’re still here.”

“Are you?”

“Yes,” she snapped, abandoning any effort at politeness.

“The butler told me Lady Audrey was out, so I thought to keep you company until her return.”

Blast her suspicious cousin. “I’ve a megrim,” she blurted.

“A man with a megrim? How novel.”

“I do aim to be different,” she growled. “I’m going to sit
alone
in silence until Lady Audrey returns.”

“That’s a splendid idea.” Sin hooked her arm and strode to a Grecian chair in the drawing room. He shoved her to the cushions, then sat beside her. “I’ll wait here with you. Just in case you become violently ill.”

She opened her mouth to protest but closed it before speaking. Protesting would be useless. Sin wouldn’t budge without some other pressing matter occurring to drag him away. With no other choice, Whitney closed her eyes and pretended to be in pain.

After what felt like a sennight, she risked a peek at her cousin.

Sin stared at her, unblinking.

She closed her eyes again and allowed her mind to wander. She thought of her childhood, her sister, father and aunt. Her heart ached with how much she missed them. She recalled the first time she had met Drake, and every moment in between, up until the last day she had seen him. Her eyes grew heavy, and her body jerked. She could not fall asleep.

She opened her eyes, startled to find the room dancing with lengthy shadows of the night to come. With the lack of sun to warm the room, a chill drifted in the air. Shivering, she wrapped her arms around herself and smiled. She’d outsmarted her cousin. He was gone, and she was now free to go see the tailor. She stood and raised her arms above her head in a much-needed stretch.

“Feeling better, Mr. Wentworth?” Sin called from a dark corner on the far side of the room.

Startled, Whitney dropped her arms and squinted into the shadows. Sin waved and gave her a wink from the far side of the room. How on earth had he crossed the room without her noticing? All the rumors she had heard of her cousin, the unspoken hints that he led a dangerous life, crashed down on her head. Sin was simply far too dangerous to ever underestimate. She had to be more careful. With measured words, she spoke. “Much better. Thank you.”

Feminine voices erupted from down the hall. Thank God, Audrey and Sally had returned. There was not a moment to waste in getting Audrey on the road to Mr. Beaumont’s.

Whitney rushed down the hall to greet Sally and Audrey with Sin on her heels. Before she said a word to Sally, the duchess nodded with a smirk.

“Lord Davenport, have you been here all this time?” Sally linked her arm through Sin’s and started tugging him toward the door.

“Mr. Wentworth felt violently ill, so I stayed.”

“How excessively kind of you,” Sally said, her mouth twitching into a grin.

“Oh, darling, Rogie,” Audrey cooed, rushing toward Whitney and throwing her arms around her. “I’m here now, my sweetikins.” Audrey shoved Whitney’s head onto her shoulder.

“How interesting that you choose to stay. I’m sure you have much better things to do. Why, I bet you must be dying to depart. Please, feel free to leave,” Sally said.

Whitney bit her lip to keep from laughing as Sally opened the front door herself and shoved Sin outside. Sally’s butler came running from his post, an appalled look twisting his face. “
Your Grace
.”

Sally waved her butler away without looking at him, her gaze steady on Sin. “Lord Davenport, we ran into Mr. Sutherland in town, and he seemed horribly vexed about something. You’d better go and see what ails the poor man. I do believe he was heading for the Vagabond Club.”

Left with no other recourse, Sin tipped his hat to them and strode down the stairs. When the door closed, Whitney shoved away from Audrey and grabbed Sally’s arm. “What’s wrong with Drake?”

“How should I know, darling? I’ve not seen the man today.”

Whitney kissed Sally on the cheek. “You are a master at deception, dear duchess.”

“That’s the nicest compliment I’ve had all day. But now, you must tell us your plan.”

A short while later, after telling Audrey where to go and what to do, Whitney settled into the seat of the hackney she had rented to take her to the Vagabond Club. She welcomed the descending darkness as the driver left the better part of London, the part where gaslights shone from every corner. The hackney clattered toward the seedy area of town where darkness dominated the streets. No doubt the lack of light served the criminals well. Her thoughts rattled in her head as the wheels of the hackney rattled against the cobblestone road.

Sin was probably already at the club, impatient for her arrival. He had likely checked his watch at least a dozen times. Her cousin loathed to wait on anyone, especially when he had pressing business, such as finding her.

Groaning, Whitney pressed her head against the side of the coach. She had not wanted to involve Audrey, but Audrey, whether Whitney liked it or not, was now up to her eyeballs in this deception. With any luck, the fistful of banknotes she had sent with Audrey would be enough blunt to remind the buffle-headed tailor to keep his yearnings to himself, and his mouth firmly shut on the subject of her person.

The hackney jerked to a halt, and Whitney forced her thoughts to the impending problem. Her stomach flipped just thinking about Drake. She had to beat him at a game he could easily win in his sleep, so she could ensure he was ousted from the club.

The quicker she located Lillian, the better. Even if Drake did lose tonight, there was nothing that said she would not run into him again in the course of her investigation, since he now ran in the same circles as Lord Cadogan. She had no idea what to do about this problem, but before she could contemplate it, the hackney door jerked open and the beefy driver’s face appeared in her view.

“We’re here. Best to get out quick and into the club.” The driver unfurled the tiny steps and motioned her out. “Ye’re not in a fine neighborhood of gleaming door knockers anymore. Linger here amongst the thieves and the rabble too long and ye’re likely to find yer throat slit or, if ye’re lucky, just yer pocket emptied.”

The man’s black beady eyes blended with the dark night, making his gaze hard to decipher, but his blunt speech left nothing to her imagination. Perhaps she had been too bold insisting she come without Peter, but at the time, she thought coming alone might be the best choice.

There were fewer people she had to fool that way. Now, as she stepped out into the murky atmosphere uncertainty filled her. Darkness consumed the narrow alley, but she needed no light to detect the filth. The stench of rotted rubbish almost made her gag. She forced herself not to react. A man would not flinch at such a thing. A quick glance around the driver into the black night left her confused.

Where was she? A splintered shingle hanging by one creaky chain and reading
Melvin’s Gin House
swung back and forth, pushed by the light wind blowing through the alley. To the left of the gin house, a piece of wood nailed over a door—the windows of which had bars running parallel—read
Martin Morvin Pawnbroker
. Between the two broken-down dwellings stood a dark red door.

The driver stuck his hand out at her. “That’ll be a shilling.”

Reaching into her topcoat, Whitney pulled out the blunt and offered it to him. He snatched it out of her hand, turned, and was halfway into his coaching seat before her surprise evaporated. She scrambled after him and grabbed the horses’ reins to prevent him from departing. “Wait a blessed minute,” she commanded in the deepest voice she could muster. Securing her bearings was mandatory before this man left. “I paid you to take me to the Vagabond Club, and I don’t see it.”

“Ye blind?” the driver asked, tugging on the horses’ reins.

“Certainly not, you insolent man. I demand you step down and show me where the Vagabond Club is.”

“Nay.” The coachman snatched the reins away and shoved at her.

A chuckling beggar teetered on the sidewalk near them. “You gonna let the big man bully you, huh? Here.” The man stumbled as he hurried forward. He extended an empty bottle. “Clock him over the head with this.”

“No, thank you. I fight fair.” But did she? How did she know? She was not really a confounded man, after all. But a man would fight, and so must she if she did not want to be abandoned in this alley. She swung around, took a deep breath, cocked her arm back and slammed up toward the coachman’s nose.

“Ow!” She stumbled backward and landed on her bottom. “Your face is bloody hard,” she moaned, extending her fingers and wincing. “I believe I’ve broken my finger.”

“Yea?” The driver clomped toward her and leered down. “I’m gonna break more than yer wee little finger for that punch ye give me.” The murderous glare in his eye and the fact that he grabbed the lapels of her kerseymere told her he meant what he said.

Better to bluff than go down like a coward. “This coat is expensive, you buffoon. Get your bloody hands off of me.” Speaking the words of a belligerent man might come easily now, but they were likely to get her killed.

The drunkard cackled as he shuffled off, and in the distance, a night watchman called out the weather.
Splendid.
She was going to be murdered while her only hope for protection, the night watchman, was busy informing her that it was a cool night.

“Ye’re one queer fellow,” the hackney driver said as he reared back his fist.

“He’s been told that before.”

She froze, at once recognizing the deep, smooth voice. Before she could react, Drake spoke again from the darkness.

“If you really want to offend him, you’ll have to be more clever.”

Jerking toward him, a flood of emotions almost made her stumble.

“Mr. Sutherland?” she choked out, happy to see him for the moment.

Drake stepped from the shadows into the sliver of light provided by the moon. Her pulse took off without her consent. The blasted man looked divine in his fitted breeches and dark coat cut so tight he must have required his valet’s assistance to get it on. He swung a cane as he stood before them, his expression indiscernible under the curve of his beaver hat, which veiled whatever she might have read in his eyes. The cunning man had probably planned it that way. He jauntily tipped his hat to her. “I’ve been waiting for you so we could start our game.”

Whitney glanced around Drake toward the red door. Had he come from there? She had not heard a door open, nor did she think the infamous Vagabond Club could possibly be cloistered in the small space between the gin shop and pawn shop. She pulled on her arm the hackney driver still held. “As you can see, I’ve been detained.”

Drake touched his cane to the driver’s arm. “Barney, let go of Mr. Wentworth.”

“Yer friend gave me a bloody nose. And he acted as if I had delivered him to the wrong place.
Me.
I know London like the back of me own hand.”

“That you do, Barney,” Drake agreed. “I’m sure it was a misunderstanding, wasn’t it, Mr. Wentworth?”

She shifted from foot to foot, uncomfortable under the scrutiny of both men and irritated with herself for her immense relief that Drake had shown up. “Indeed it was. I apologize. But I still don’t see the Vagabond Club.”