The Devil to Pay (22 page)

Better the cat than Meg, Devellyn supposed. At least Sidonie was not a fool. She was hiding something, he thought, and doing a bloody good job of it. “Well, what of this brother?” he asked. “This George Kemble?”

Polk was actually scratching his head now. “Well, we’ve a bit o’ confusion there,” said the footman. “Meg allowed as how
madame
might have two or three brothers, for all she knew, but she’s still never seen one come round the house.”

Devellyn wracked his brain.
My brother,
Sidonie had said,
fell in with a bad, dangerous crowd.

Certainly the fellow had had a nasty edge to his personality. He did not look like a chap one would want as an enemy, either. So just how bad and dangerous was George Kemble? Or was he even her brother? Sidonie—or so he’d assumed—was French, though her accent was admittedly faint. The man Devellyn had met in Covent Garden had spoken with an unmistakable English accent—and a very upper-crust accent at that.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” interjected Polk. “But did you say Kemble? Like the acting family?”

“No, definitely not,” said Devellyn irritably. “He was a good deal more well bred than that.”

“But you never said his name before, sir,” Polk pressed. “Is it spelt the same?”

Devellyn considered it. “I daresay. Why?”

My brother Ben—the one who works for the River Police?—he knows a chap in the Strand by that name,” said Polk. “A very toplofty sort of fellow who deals in fancy things.”

“Fancy things?”

“Fine folderol,
it says on his door,” Polk explained. “Just round from St. Martin’s Church. He trades in art, jewelry, and very expensive old things—what do they call ’em?—
antiquities.
Like sculptures from Egypt, and old carvings made by Chinamen that’s been dead a thousand years.”

“You don’t say?” mused Devellyn.

Polk nodded effusively. “Lots o’ rich nobs do business there,” he said. “Ben took me once to buy a hatpin for Mum’s birthday, and the prime minister himself was there. Buying an ormolu clock, he was.”

“Wellington, eh?” said Devellyn. “I daresay this Kemble could be the same man.”

Polk shot him a warning glance. “Well, this Kemble chap I’m talking of is well-known to the police,” he said. “That’s how Ben knows him—or knows
of
him.”

“He is of questionable character?”

Polk shrugged. “Well, he certainly knows a lot of ’em,” he admitted. “Smugglers and fences, for starts. And Ben says the police inspectors do go in and out o’ there on a reg’lar basis asking him certain things and showing him certain things. Kemble does help them out from time to time, but very quiet-like, if you know what I mean. And sometimes, Ben says, you don’t know whether to trust him or not.”

The marquess snorted. “That definitely sounds like the fellow.”

“Well, it’s not my place to offer advice, sir,” said his servant, who was obviously getting ready to do so. “But I should have a care if I were you. Ben says this Kemble chap has friends in very high places. Knows Mr. Peel personally, he does, and has the ear of lots o’ the beaks round the parishes.”

“Beaks?” said Devellyn.

“Magistrates,” Polk explained. “And folks over at the Home Office, too.”

Devellyn set his coffee aside. “So, not just a simple shopkeeper, eh?”

“Oh, no, sir,” said Polk. “That he definitely is not.”

“Hmm,” said Devellyn. “Very odd. Thank you, Polk. You are dismissed.”

Polk turned to go, then suddenly turned back again. “My lord, there was one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“You wished to know, you said, if the ladies had any engagements,” he answered. “Meg says
madame
is to go to a ball in a few days’ time. A very posh affair, she says, given by a friend of Mr. Peel’s who is high up in the government. She knows, she said, because Mrs. Crosby is working on her ball gown.”

“How odd,” said Devellyn. “Who? When?”

“She did not know the
when,
sir,” Polk admitted. “But the name she heard, for Mrs. Crosby was crowing about it. It was Walrafen, sir. Lord Walrafen.”

That night, Sidonie dressed for her evening engagement with the utmost care. After twisting her hair up, she put on her midshipman’s uniform; a white waistcoat, snug trousers, and an elegant coat of dark blue trimmed with gold buttons and deep cuffs. A touch of makeup to harden her facial bones and suggest the merest shadow of a beard, then she was ready for the hat. Thus attired in perfect naval splendor, Sidonie began to practice her rolling sailor’s gait. She had seen enough of it in her travels, so it was not such a great challenge.

Thomas looked up, surveying the sight with feline indifference. “What do you think, old boy?” she asked him, studying herself in the mirror.

Thomas unsheathed his claws and began to dig into her carpet.

“An excellent notion!” murmured Sidonie. She rummaged through her dressing table until she found her sheath and blade. Carefully, she tucked it away and bent to pet the cat.

Thomas rose up onto his hind feet and rubbed his cheek over her knee. Inexplicably, a strange chill ran through her. Thomas was not normally so affectionate; not unless food was involved. She shook off the odd feeling, picked him up for a kiss, then settled him in the center of the bed.

“Keep it warm, Tommy,” she said, giving him one last scratch beneath the chin. “I’ll not be long.”

She looked again at the mirror, studying the hat. It could be her undoing, she thought ruefully. Bodley had arranged to meet his last lover at an inn. A gentleman would be expected to remove his hat under such circumstances. Reluctantly, she let her hair down again, and took up her scissors.

Just then, Julia came in and shut the door quietly behind. “Meg’s abed now, and Tuttle’s sleeping off Dr. Ketwell’s laudanum.” She jerked to a halt, and looked with horror at the scissors Sidonie held aloft. “Oh, Lord, Sidonie, this is madness!”

Sidonie smiled. “Come, Julia, do I not look the part of a sailor? My makeup is well-done, is it not?”

But there was no pleasing Julia any longer. Sidonie’s schemes, she swore, had gotten out of hand. Sidonie accused her of having grown fainthearted. Julia threatened to tell George. Sidonie dared her to do so. As usual, they got nowhere.

“Well, at the very least,” said Julia heatedly, “do not ruin your lovely hair for this.”

“Then you must disguise it for me,” Sidonie challenged. “I have not your skill.”

With obvious reluctance, Julia stalked from the room and returned with a wig from one of her trunks. Wordlessly jamming in hairpins, she twisted Sidonie’s hair into painfully tight curls, then pulled the wig snugly over them. The result was remarkable. Sidonie kissed her friend’s cheek, thanked her, then slipped out into the gloom of London.

She made her way west, thinking and moving as a young man might, with her chin up, shoulders back, and eyes roaming freely. No one spared her a second look, save for two sloe-eyed strumpets loitering in the murk beside the Golden Cross. Sidonie thought of how Bodley had lured his last young man inside, shivered, and quickened her step on past the front door.

The fringes of St. James’s Park were softened by gaslight. It spilt in cottony, mustard-colored auras around the lampposts, unable to permeate far into the gloom. There was no rain, thank God, nor was it cold, but here, nearer the river, the fog had not begun to lift. Fleetingly, Sidonie considered turning back. On the other hand, one could die of old age waiting for a clear night in London. And how many innocents might Bodley take advantage of while she waited?

She took the footpath which rimmed the park’s easterly edge, just as Bodley had done. To her right, a fine unmarked carriage was parked at the corner of New Street, a groom holding the horses’ heads, a coachman hunched under his many-caped coat, asleep by the look of his posture. Not Bodley’s servants, though. Sidonie moved on through the gloom.

To her left, a courting couple strolled toward the water, their heads bent in conversation. A footman and a housemaid, by the look of them. It made her think of Meg and her growing infatuation with Devellyn’s servant. She hoped the young man was sincere. And she hoped, too, that Meg was watching her tongue. Lost in such thoughts, Sidonie was well along the path before she realized it. She jerked her head up to get her bearings, and instead walked squarely into a young dandy, literally bouncing off him in the gloom.

“I say!” murmured the man, hastily catching her by the shoulder as she stumbled. “Steady on, lad!” He gave her a resounding thump on the back.

The gesture, so masculine in its execution, threw her off guard. Sidonie opened her mouth, and somehow found her midshipman’s voice. “Beg your pardon, sir,” she said. “Wasn’t watching my step, was I?”

But the dandy’s eyes were running down her with a calculated interest now. Swiftly, Sidonie took in the placement of his handkerchief, and the thumb which hung so casually from his waistcoat. “Going toward the Admiralty?” he asked, as if to strike up a conversation.

Sidonie shook her head. “No,” she said. “I mean, yes. In that general direction.” She nodded by way of dismissal. “My apologies again, sir. Good night.”

The dandy lifted his very elegant hat and watched her back away a little regretfully. She left him on the graveled path, still staring after her. Just a little farther along, she should see the spot where Lord Bodley had left his footman. Yes, just by that tree. She exhaled and relaxed a little. Despite the gloom, she began to see little groups of well-dressed gentlemen strolling about the trees and bushes, smoking and making idle conversation. More than a few of the gentlemen had women of a certain class hanging off their arms, all of them gay and laughing. Cynically, Sidonie wondered how many of them were truly happy, and how much of the gaiety was simply an act calculated to earn them a decent meal and a warm bed for the night.

A few yards along, she came out on the side near the parade ground. At the foot of Great George Street, a coach had drawn up at the curb, and as she passed downwind of it, she caught the unmistakable scent of opium clinging to the damp air.
Opium?
In St. James’s? After nightfall, the park did indeed seem to become the place one went when in search of a little vice.

Sidonie strolled back and forth along the easterly edge of the park for a good hour but saw no sign of Bodley or his servant. On three occasions, however, other gentlemen began to approach her, their gazes assessing, yet guarded. She turned them away with her eyes. It was understood. They moved on, or let their attention drift elsewhere. But eventually, even these handsome, idle men began to fall away, some alone or with women, others in pairs, taking their cheroots and laughter with them. In the distance, a clock was striking midnight, the sound muffled and forlorn in the damp.

It was no use, she realized. Bodley would not come this night. Even the sound of traffic outside the park was beginning to wane. Sidonie shook off the disappointment. The evening had made for a good trial run. She set a swift pace toward the busy, well-lit Strand. She would go along the back of it, she decided. Off the beaten path, just in case George was out for a stroll, but near enough to be safe. Suddenly, she heard gravel crunch behind her.

She jerked at once to a halt, a stupid thing to do. She looked about. Nothing. But an awful chill ran up her spine.
Good Lord.
It was just her imagination. She was alone in the gloom, but not far from civilization. She could hear a carriage clattering toward Charing Cross, barely a two-minute walk away. She set off, feeling marginally safer, but she rechecked the blade in her coat pocket just the same.

Within moments, however, she again heard something—or perhaps sensed something. Or perhaps she was just losing her nerve. Admittedly, her life of crime had gone somewhat awry ever since she’d run into the Marquess of Devellyn. Sidonie was beginning to believe that the man had put some sort of curse on her.

Cautious now, she turned to take a shortcut toward Whitehall. She hastened across the street, which was devoid of traffic, and lost herself in the rabbit warrens approaching Scotland Yard. It was, perhaps, an unwise choice. The government buildings along the river lay quiet this time of night, while the pubs and coffeehouses of the Strand were tantalizingly beyond her reach.

She felt a whisper of motion an instant before he grabbed for her.

Sidonie spun around, whipping one leg into a high, vicious kick, a trick she’d learned from a Cantonese sailor. She caught her assailant hard in the ribs. He staggered back. She caught her balance, rolled onto the ball of one foot, and spun around again. Her boot caught him in the throat as he started up. The whole thing lasted but two seconds. Sidonie was outnumbered. Another man caught her from behind, and hauled her up hard against him.

“Well, look’ee what we got here, Budley,” he rasped over her shoulder. “Seems peg-boy knows him a trick or two.”

“Sod off!” growled Sidonie, struggling to throw him off. “The both of you.” But fear gripped her throat. She fought it.
They’re hoodlums,
she told herself.
Cutpurses, at worst.

The one called Budley was approaching her now, still rubbing his ribs. He was young. Unshaven. His hands were grubby and his clothing rough. “Sod off, eh?” he said. “High talk for a sailor boy with ’is back to the wall.”

He grabbed her roughly, and together the two men pinned her shoulders against the dank stone.

“Looks like a pretty madge-cull to me, Budley,” said the second, forcing his face into hers. “Wonder what’s in his pockets, eh? Coming from the park, he was. P’raps peg-boy made him a bit o’ blunt tonight with that nancy little arse of his.”

Budley leaned in and thrust one hand into her pocket—the empty one. Sidonie had to jerk her face away. She could smell him now. Sour breath. Unwashed skin, rank with old sweat. And both were foxed, or near enough it to hamper their judgment and timing.

She jerked hard, and almost caught him with her elbow again. “I said
sod off!”
she growled.

Budley leered at her, and extracted his hand. “You little Mary-Anns do like to troll through St. James’s of a night,” he said. “Hey, Pug, you ever had one?”