Her Quicksilver Lover: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 6 (16 page)

The suspicion entered his mind. Had she been fooled too? Was someone using her?

The response came immediately. “She was not as sweet as you might think. She was betrothed, and yet she came to my bed.”

Wickhampton raised his brows, the corner of his lips quirking up. “Did she, now? I daresay she could not resist your godly advances.”

He bit his lip. “She asked me. There were no advances involved.”

Wickhampton gave a low whistle. “Your godly charms, then. Do you think she is innocent?”

Repulsion flashed through him. “No. I think she might have been duped, though. At least, I’m willing to entertain the possibility, although I have yet to be convinced.”

His mind clear once more, he paced to the picture of Adora, turned, and strode back the other way. Pacing helped sometimes. It did now. “We cannot let her go. She’s an immortal now, and she could be used by our enemies. If her betrothed is our enemy, although I do not discount her father, then they will use her to expose us.”

“And we need to stop that,” Apollo said. “If it helps, we could take her to my house in Yorkshire. She would never escape the secure rooms.”

“Your brother did.”

A twinge of pain passed over his features. “My youngest sister let him out. Otherwise he would still be safe and cared for. He had not much intellect, poor Barnabas, but he was a loving man, and kind.”

“Not when I saw him,” Amidei said with feeling.

* * * * *

Mr. Spencer looked up from the press when Joanna walked through the door. He was printing out more journals, the sheets spread around the floor and the benches, hanging from the lines of string threaded through the screwed-in eyes behind him. The room stank, sharp and acrid, an appropriate reflection of her mood. “You’re back early,” he said.

“It’s still light outside, so yes, I am.” She had not waited for a cab or any other expression of kindness. The doors of the Pantheon were closed to her now. “I’m not going back.”

Her father carefully placed another sheet of paper under the press. A stack of it stood next to the machine, ready for production. “Good.”

Joanna took in the stack of printed and dried papers, and the ones hanging up. “You’re planning to sell twice as many as usual?”

Her father beamed. “If not more. Your betrothed has employed boys to run around with them. He’s also sending someone to help, an experienced printer. Now that you’re here, you may help.”

Joanna picked up one of the papers and began to read. When she’d done, she was cold all the way through. Her fingers were numb. “Where is the proof for this?” She read the column aloud, praying it would sound different if she did so. “‘The P— Club contains so many foreigners we do not know where to begin. Also in residence is the Earl of Wickhampton, who, although English, has returned from a prolonged stay in the Continent. His family were supporters of King James the Second, of ill-repute, and suspicions have been raised of his complicity with the Young Pretender. It is certain that he has no sympathy for good King George. We have been watching the club for some time.” She looked up in horror. “You mean me? I have been watching?”

Her father gave her a grin and a nod, and dropped the plate on the paper. “It’s the truth.”

The press sank down with a hiss and a sigh, the screw above well oiled and well used. Even more so now. Her father spun it up, latched it into place, and checked the wet paper before lifting it and hanging it from one corner from the line.

Joanna continued to read, but to herself, her horror mounting.

Had Amidei seen this? If he had not this morning he would have seen it by now. From his reaction, the way he’d cut her off and refused to allow her to answer his fury, he’d probably seen it.

In fact, he had left her less devastated, more furious. Anyone who did not give her a chance deserved no consideration themselves. Except that she still longed to speak to him, just to be in his presence.

She was absolutely idiotic, and she could do nothing to stop herself wanting him. Added to that, he’d claimed she was different, but she felt the same. Yesterday she had experienced some odd things, but today that had settled down. Sudden fevers were not unknown in this world, and she could put her symptoms down to that.

Except for one. She had not cut herself to find out if her blood was clear, but she had spoken to him mind-to-mind. Or she seemed to. She’d heard his voice in her head, speaking to her, and she’d watched him. He was not that skilful. Nobody was.

She could put it down to the fever, or her weakness afterwards. She would not, however, accuse him of being a seducer. That was entirely her fault. Perhaps fault was the wrong word. She would never regret that part. How could she when she still felt warm from the experience?

Perhaps Amidei was a different person in bed to the one out of it.

The less she thought about that part, the better. While she could not cast everything that had happened blithely aside, at least she could think of something else. Like the scurrilous article she held in her hand. “Papa, this is nothing more than casting aspersions. The Pantheon Club is not this place. It doesn’t contain people planning sedition. I never saw that and never experienced it. How can you say such a thing?”

Running her gaze down to the bottom of the column, she saw the author. It had to be Peter Pepper. “You used my name?”

He shrugged.

“You’ll ruin the club.”

That was not fair. All those people would lose their jobs, and the good work Amidei had done would go to waste.

“My dear, we are finally getting some success. How can you not want that? We deserve it as much as your precious club does not. No more working as a servant for you. No more spectacles—where are they, by the way?”

She touched her face. Amidei had them in his pocket. His only reminder of her. He would probably toss them aside, and having seen that article, she could not blame him.

“This time next month, you will be a married woman, in charge of your own establishment.”

The door behind her opened. Joanna did not care who had just come in, because she didn’t care who heard her now. “Do I have no say in that? Do I not deserve to be courted?”

“Indeed you do.” Arms went around her from behind, just as Amidei had done earlier, but he evoked very different feelings in her. Patrick nuzzled the top of her head. “I would have wished your father not to reveal my plans in that.”

“Ha!” Her father shrugged as he reached for another sheet of paper. “You will do as you are told, miss. Patrick will make you a very good husband.”

Joanna froze, did not move. “I do not wish to marry him.”

There, she had said it, articulated what she wanted at last. Until she said it aloud she hadn’t realised how true that was. She did not want to marry Patrick Gough, although she didn’t precisely know why. Something about him disturbed her and had from the start. Of course now she had more information to help her. Still with her back to him, she brandished the paper. “This, sir, is a pack of lies!”

He caught the paper before she could crumple it, although they could not sell that sheet now. She had smeared it, and pressed her fingers into it. She would do that to every sheet if it stopped them going on the streets. “I’m ashamed to be associated with such stories.”

Patrick turned her around, but he did it forcibly, putting his hands on her shoulders, and turning her as if she was a child or an object rather than a person. When he looked at her she suspected he was not really seeing her, Joanna, but a potential asset, something to be owned. “You will be a credit to me, I know it. But if you wish a courtship, you shall have it.” As if he was granting her a boon. “We will show ourselves about the town. The season will start next week, next Wednesday to be precise, with Lady Stillings’s ball. We shall attend.”

“You have invitations?”

“Of course.”

There was no “of course” about it. Although the ball was a large one, and Joanna had planned to attend, she had no invitation. She would have hired a suitable gown and waited outside, trying to find a way in, even as a server. And she would be working.

The idea of attending the ball as a guest entranced her for a bare moment before she shook her head. “Sir, that was not what I meant. How could you print such things in my father’s paper? Before now, we published gossip and political news, with commentaries that were clearly matters of opinion. You have concatenated truth and falsehood, blending them into lies and stories that cannot be proved.”

“Would you rather I told them the truth?”

His words of the night before poured into her. “That they’re demons and witches?”

“Yes, that.”

If she’d expected to shame him, then she was disappointed. He gazed down at her, lips compressed, waiting for her response.

That pain came again, the needle-sharp one, but it was gone so quickly she hardly registered it was there. “That’s superstition.”

“Whatever they are, they are wrong. Spies, witches, demons, what does it matter?”

“Do you have proof?” Of the spy stories he would have nothing. Of the other, she was not so sure, especially from what she had learned.

“Yes, of course.”

She could think of nothing else to say, no more arguments to sway him, to make him change his mind. The damage was already done. She could only pray that the reading public dismissed the paper as she did.

Chapter Twelve

Joanna retired to bed immediately after dinner, while her father and Patrick discussed the next step of their journey. Whatever she said, she could not persuade her father of the arrant nonsense of the allegations. He said he had seen proof, but so far she had seen none. She could dismiss the accusations of witchcraft a little less securely, but at least she was not convinced of them.

The next day she dressed and took her basket, intending to go to Covent Garden and then Smithfield Market to buy some produce. Her father had assured her that he would engage a maid now that their fortunes were looking up, but she would not rely on his word. He’d said all that with an indulgent smile, relegating Joanna to the position of “little woman” whose opinions were not worth discussing.

Early morning light filtered through the narrow, cobbled streets, over the people constantly hurrying along them. A chairman cursed as he pushed past, his sedan chair empty and the man at the other end equally surly and equally muscular. A furniture mender called his services to the world. Joanna could use him to repair the sofa in the parlour. They could even afford it, now, or they would be able to soon.

She could not help the way her mind moved along familiar paths. With Amidei casting her off so conclusively she might have no choice but to take Patrick’s offer. When Amidei saw today’s journal, he would probably bar her from his mind completely.

Sales of the paper the previous day had expanded, probably due to the small army of sellers Patrick had obtained. She saw more of the little demons now, clutching armfuls of the
Argus
, selling them as fast as they could pocket the money. The coffeehouses would have their quota, and the boys would be working farther West, to Mayfair and the homes of the wealthy.

All Joanna felt was shame. That was not the way she’d expected to feel when finally the
Argus
found itself in the hands of more than a handful of people. The thrill of success had been wrenched away from her. Yet another grudge she could lay at Patrick’s door.

Last night she’d seen a spark of madness in him, a glint that told her he was not quite sane in his pursuit of the Pantheon Club and its inmates. Or had she imagined it in the dim candlelight by which they’d eaten their dinner? That night Patrick had gone out to a chophouse and bought them a veritable repast. He’d outlined the future, so sure about it that she began to believe him. They would live in his villa on the banks of the Thames, and she would have babies and spend her pin money, and attend soirées and musicales. He promised to introduce her to society. His father would be delighted to meet her. Patrick might even inherit the viscountcy one day. He’d covered her hand at that and given it a squeeze.

She’d excused herself shortly afterwards, pleading tiredness. Patrick had seen her to her bedroom door again. She was sure they didn’t do that in society, but she maintained her tired attitude and let him kiss her, but only once.

How could she bear it?

As she walked through the streets and on to the thoroughfare that led to Smithfield, another boy pushed past her, carrying another pile of papers. Her eyes narrowed. Her father could not have possibly printed all those. “Boy!”

She pressed a precious penny into his hands and took a paper.

She was right. Using the
Argus
shield and the name Peter Pepper, the two columns referring to the Pantheon Club were worse, much worse. Names—albeit redacted, but plainly obvious to anyone—and specific accusations poured over the page in a slick, sick stream of nonsense. Lord Wickhampton was not a suspicious person, he was in the employ of the French. Worse, Lord d’Argento was a spymaster, running a ring of insidious traitors from the confines of the Pantheon Club.

People were talking about it. Everywhere she listened, all conversation was about the Club and its nest of spies. At this rate a mob would form and there was no denying a mob. All anyone could do was to get out of the way, while it wreaked what havoc its leaders wanted. True, the ringleaders would suffer, but only after they had done their worst.

Bunches of people were gathering, all holding copies of the paper, shouting loudly about the disgrace of the Pantheon Club, harbouring a nest of spies. “We should stop them!” cried one, a butcher by his bloodied leather apron. “Go there now and show them what we mean!”

Others nodded and growled, flinging opinions that gained in wildness.

Joanna couldn’t ignore what was happening. When she’d seen such sights before, they had ended in violence.

Standing in the street, the sound of lowing cattle from the meat market mingling with the cackle of chickens, and the gossip on all sides, she made her decision. She would not have anything to do with this madness.

If the journal had not yet reached the West End, she might be in time to warn Amidei and his colleagues. Their very lives were in danger, if, as she suspected, when a mob formed. London was prime for another riot. With the great and good arriving for the season, excitement thrummed in the air. Before the season got underway, the water would boil and the steam build up.

And people would get hurt.

Barely thinking properly, Joanna set out, racing through the streets.

If anyone had asked her if she could run the three and a bit miles to the club, she’d have laughed at them. But she accomplished the task with ease, running through the thoroughfares, up the Strand, ignoring the noxious streets that opened out into the rookeries, too used to them to take much notice of the stink and the people leaning against rickety walls, watching her speculatively.

Only when she stopped at the main door of the club did her legs give under her. She clutched the column holding up the portico and gasped for breath. She couldn’t go into the club like this. They’d think she was mad. Lowering her head, she sucked in a breath, her head spinning.

Someone ran down the stairs. All she saw was a pair of black shoes, polished silver buckles glinting before she was swept off her feet and into the arms of the man she’d come to see.

Tight-lipped, he stared down into her face. Her hat fell off, despite her feeble efforts to clutch it. He said nothing, but swung around and carried her into the building.

People stared as he took her up the stairs, and then again, carrying her as if she weighed nothing, heading for the sanctity of his chambers. It was early, the guests not yet awake. Even Amidei was still in his shirtsleeves, not even his waistcoat in place. “I saw you run around the corner as I was shaving.” His voice rumbled through her, a vibration she was not too ashamed to admit that she loved. She would not yet confess to the rest.

“I have to warn you. I ran—” Only then did she realise she’d dropped her basket somewhere. Another expense, but she did not have to worry about that any longer. Or so her father had assured her.

Reaching his chambers, he went through to the bedroom and laid her down, but did not release her. Instead he joined her, lying on his side and propping his head on one hand. He kept his arm around her waist. “What’s wrong?”

Tears started to her eyes. “You’re in danger.”

He raised a brow but said nothing.

“The
Argus
, have you seen it?”

He nodded. “I sent a footman out to collect a copy.” She could not tell how he felt from his expression, still and dispassionate.

“Everybody is talking about it.”

“A nine days’ wonder. You should not let it disturb you.”

The dizziness had left her, but when she tried to rise, he held her down. “No, stay there a while longer. For me.” He gave a wry smile. “Though why you should I do not know.”

“There’s a riot brewing, I’m sure of it. They will head here and smash the club to pieces.”

“It will take a little more than a few lies to incite a mob.”

Pushing against his arm, she lifted up and faced him. Amidei interlaced their fingers.

She tried to make him see. “You don’t understand. The mob will be out for blood. You know London is dangerous at present. There was that riot last year. There is no stopping the mob once it’s roaring for blood.”

He shook his head. “There will be no mob. Not today, at any rate. I’ve sent people out to dissipate any rumours.” He touched her waist, slid it up so that if she was wearing no stays he’d be cradling her breast. She should move away, she really should, but she wanted this too much. “We know how to work a mob, and how not to. I know London is seething. It always is. It’s one of the reasons I love the place.” Lifting his hand, he touched her forehead. “In there, that is how we’ll control them. The staff will disseminate rumours, and if they have to, start them laughing.”

“It won’t work. Society will hear—”

“Society dislikes spies.”

He trailed a finger down her cheek. It was as if his outburst of yesterday had never happened. “Now we’ve been alerted to the situation, we can act accordingly.” His soft grey eyes warmed, heating her too. “As for you—did you run all the way?”

She nodded. “I had to warn you.”

He tucked his fingers under her chin. “Why?”

“Because—because I couldn’t stand by and let them destroy you, and what you’ve made here…” She looked down, at his hand. He’d touched her bare skin with that hand, stroked her and roused her to a frenzy of need.

“Me, or the club?”

She had no choice but to tell him the truth. “You.”

He leaned closer, but she flattened her hand on his chest. “That doesn’t mean I’m here to share your bed.” How she said that without blushing defeated her imagination, but she did.

He retreated, and nodded. Disappointed when he swung his feet down and stood, she began to scramble off the bed. Good Lord, she still had her shoes on! After tramping, or rather running, through the noxious streets, she had not even changed into indoor shoes.

Ignoring her consternation, he held out his hand and clasped hers firmly, helping her off the big bed. “Let me show you something,” he said. “You deserve to know why I ripped up at you. How could you know you were touching a particularly tender spot of my sorry hide?”

He led her back to the large drawing room. To think she was intimidated by the luxury in this space when she first saw it. Now she viewed it as his natural surroundings.

But things were missing. “Where’s the monkey band?” she blurted out.

As she spoke Lightfoot came in from the jib door, bearing a tray with several ornaments laid carefully on the soft linen cloth spread on top. “Well may you ask,” he said glumly. He set about arranging the objects. These ornaments were new.

With a grimace of distaste, Amidei released her hand and seized one of the objects. “What is this?”

“I thought you might recognise it,” the factotum said. “Winged hat, caduceus, winged sandals—has that given you a clue?”

“Hermes,” she said, and at the same time Amidei said, “Mercury. Take it away,” he added. “Take them all away. I want a change.” He glanced up at the chandelier. “That’s still here.” He returned his limpid gaze to a visibly stricken Lightfoot. Whatever was wrong with the man? “No more ornaments. I’ll have crystal and glass only. And books. I like those. I’ll decide what else I want another time. Leave us.”

Lightfoot placed the ornaments back on the tray, taking care to lay them so they would not nudge each other, risking a chip. Before he could turn and leave, Amidei snatched up the figure of Mercury. “I’ll keep this one.”

“I thought you might.” Lightfoot glanced at her, then at Amidei, and left the room without bowing.

“He’s in a strange mood,” she remarked.

Amidei stood the figure on the mantelpiece. It looked strange without another on the other side to balance it. He stepped back. “There.”

She faced the marble fireplace, watching the fire crackle, then lifted her gaze to the portrait above. “That’s your ancestor.”

“Not quite.”

The lady smiled down benevolently on them, her soft, brown gaze taking everything in. Her gown would slip any moment and reveal one perfect, pouting breast. It was barely covered by her shift and the blue gown below. Her hair cascaded in a riot of curls over her shoulders.

“She looks like she has secrets,” Joanna said.

“She did.”

His acerbic tone effectively took her attention from the portrait. She stared at him. “Did she do your forebear wrong?”

“She did
me
wrong.” Bitterly he gazed at the lovely lady. “She is coming down from the wall today. I have decided it. I’ll have a blameless landscape put there instead, or a view of the Thames from the Tower. That would be appropriate.” He turned his gaze to hers. “Come here.” After a pause he held out his hand. “Please?”

She went and took his hand, but did not look at the lady again. He did, keeping his attention on her. “Her name was Adora. Or she called herself that; I don’t know which. I met her in Rome and brought her to England, because she claimed she was persecuted for her religion. I was completely infatuated with her.” Joanna’s breath caught in her throat. Perhaps the lady was in fancy dress, deliberately made to look like someone from a hundred years ago. Deep down, she knew that wasn’t true.

Amidei continued with his story. “I was, naturally, duped. I was a fool. She knew who I was, or rather,
what
I was, and she wanted it for herself. I was besotted. I married her, and then planned for her to take the test.” He glanced at her, his eyes dark and bleak with remembered sorrow. “The one with the glass of water that we undertook the other day. She was compatible.” He lifted his gaze again and stared at the likeness of the woman called Adora. “I converted her. After that, she denounced me to the authorities. They took me and locked me up.” He turned to face her and gathered both her hands in his, locking them against his chest. “In the Tower of London, as it happens. I was condemned to death.”

She gasped. “Why?”

“I was a royalist, sweetheart. A supporter of King Charles, and when I returned to England, King Charles had been beheaded and the country was a Commonwealth. Royalists were being executed as a regular occurrence.” He sighed. “I was ready to die. I had made a fool of myself with Adora, and I had no wish to continue as I was. So I did not try to escape. But someone else had other ideas.”