The Harlow Hoyden (23 page)

“Good. Very good,” he said, squeezing her hands. “Well, I should be going then.”

“Going, Sir Waldo? But I only just got here,” she said with a pout.

If Sir Waldo had known either of the Harlow sisters better he would’ve been suspicious of a pout. However, he only laid a comforting hand on her
cheek. “Lavinia, I know you’re fond of me, but you mustn’t be disappointed if I can’t spend much time with you. I’m a man of business and have many commitments. And you are to be the wife of a politician. If my career is to advance at all, we must both be ready to make sacrifices, you most of all because you are a woman and it is in your nature to sacrifice. Whereas I must always—”

Emma laid
her lips on his and kissed him. She couldn’t help herself. She would have done anything to avoid hearing yet another speech on the duties of a wife, even this repulsive chore. A shocked Windbag held himself stiff for a few seconds before relaxing. Then he began taking over the kiss, sticking his tongue so forcefully down Emma’s throat that she thought she’d choke. But no matter. She managed to get
her hands on the letter. Then she freed her lips and said, “Hug me, Sir Waldo, for you have been gone such a long time.”

Too full of himself to question this strange speech, Windbag reached his pudgy arms around her and held her close. “There, there, Lavinia. You are an emotional child and given to freakish starts. I will cure you of that. The wife of a politician does not have the luxury of
freakish starts…”

He went on in the same vein, but Emma was not listening; she was reading the purloined letter over his shoulder. It was on the same stationary as the other letters, the ones she’d found in his study. This message was equally cryptic, speaking of water temperatures and expected fog, but this time Emma wasn’t taken in. She knew this was not some innocent communication of no importance.
Although she didn’t know what it was about and hadn’t the least idea what Roger could possibly have to do with any of it, she felt positively that the message was coded. She did not know what it meant, but it was obvious to her that Windbag did. What was its importance?

She carefully returned the letter to his pocket, disguising her movements as an appreciative exploration of her future husband’s
arms. “You are so handsome, Sir Waldo,” she said, batting her lashes at him so that he wouldn’t see the disgust in her eyes.

“And you are just right, Lavinia. You are not too pretty to be a distraction and yet pretty enough to impress other men. You are a credit to me,” he said, bringing his lips down on hers again.

Emma knew she was tougher than most men and women, but this was something
she could not go through a second time. She turned her cheek and accepted a wet peck from him. “Didn’t you say were busy? I don’t want to take you away from your commitments. The last thing I want to be is a distraction.”

“Dear Lavinia, you couldn’t if you tried, so don’t worry yourself on that point,” he said tenderly.

Emma simpered and preened and waved fondly when he looked back at her
one last time. When the door to the drawing room was shut, she ran to the window and watched him climb into his carriage. She had to think fast. What should she do next? It occurred to her that the wisest thing would be to climb up those stairs and confront Roger. Whatever was going on, he was knee-deep in it, but she decided against it. His wound was still fresh, and Nurse and Sarah would not thank
her for getting him riled up. And really, in his condition what could he do? He might try to ride to the rescue and harm himself further. No, she would leave Roger out of this.

She tossed on a pelisse and ran outside, assuring Ludlow that she didn’t need the carriage. With Windbag about to turn the corner, she didn’t have much time to lose. She followed on foot for two blocks, and then hailed
a hackney when it became clear that foot power wasn’t sufficient. “I want you to follow that coach there with the red-and-blue crest, but I don’t want you to get too close. He mustn’t know that we are following him.”

“Ye suspect him of nasty doings, do ye?” said the driver with an understanding nod. “These ’usbands are all the same, untrustworthy as dogs. Don’t ye worry. I’ll keep ’im in me
sights. Ye can count on John Smith.”

Emma climbed into the cab, much relieved by this confident claim. She’d never tailed anyone before, and it seemed a rather complicated endeavor, keeping a delicate balance of close but not too close. As they drove through London streets, Emma reviewed the information gathered so far. She knew now that Sir Waldo Windbourne was indeed the villain she had been
calling him all along. The messages he had stolen had to do with Roger, Roger who’d never done a secretive thing in his life. She thought of his visits to France. He had claimed he was looking after investments for their mother, but Mama had denied this assertion. Emma had concluded that Mama was behaving in her usual forgetful manner, but what if she was wrong? What if Mama had spoken the truth?
Why then had Roger gone to France?

The coach stopped and Emma looked out the window, vexed to see that they were across the street from Sir Windbag’s town house. Damn and blast! She had dashed out of the house, most likely frightening Ludlow with the haste of her departure, and all for naught. She sat in the coach for several minutes, fuming over this development. It was just like Sir Windbag
to waste her time.

She was about to tell the coachman to return her to her house when he quieted her with a hand and pointed across the street. Windbag was on the move again. Dressed for travel in leather breeches and a greatcoat, he was carrying a large suitcase. He climbed into his coach and was again off.

They followed him down to the docks, to an unsavory taproom with raucous laughter
emanating from it. It was the last place a gently bred lady should be, but that didn’t stop the Harlow Hoyden.

“Miss, ye shouldn’t go in there,” John Smith warned. “That not be a place for a lady such as yeself.”

“I appreciate your concern, but it’s a matter of utmost importance,” she said, reaching in to her reticule and extracting money to pay him. “How much do I owe you?”

The coachman
jumped down and accosted Emma. “What can ye about, waving yer money around like that? Ye not on Bond Street now.”

“Excellent point, my good man,” she said, surreptitiously counting out change. “Here you go. I would appreciate it if you would wait here for my return, but I understand if you choose to leave. You will, of course, be amply compensated.”

He put his hand to his mouth to shush her
and looked around. “Ye don’t say things like ‘amply compensated’ down here, lass. Will ye never learn?”

“You are right, Mr. Smith. I must learn quickly. Now, before I go inside, tell me, will you be here when I return?”

The driver had serious concerns of her ever returning, but he assured her that he wouldn’t move until she came out.

“Excellent,” she said. “This shouldn’t take long.”

No, thought the coachman, it would not take long for the men inside to eat her alive.

Unaware of the coachman’s pessimistic thoughts, Emma drew the hood over her blond head and opened the doorway. Though it was the middle of a sunny day in London, the interior of the taproom was dark. An unpleasant smell of cigars and alcohol and male sweat accosted her as soon as she stepped inside. Her eyes
swept the room quickly, finding no trace of Sir Windbag. He had been only a few minutes ahead of her. Where could he have gone?

Emma decided that the bartender was the best person to ask, since he seemed to be more sober than the other fellows. However, before she could get to the bar, an arm reached out and tugged her against a rough chest.

“Lookee, here,” growled a man with repellent breath.
“Jim’s gone an’ found himself an angel.” He removed her hood and began running his fingers through her smooth curls. “She feels like one.”

The other man laughed. “She looks like one.”

“And she smells like one,” said a third man.

“But is she a devil in bed?” called a fourth man.

Although all talk had ceased in the tavern and every eye was one her, Emma was not afraid. She had dealt with
a dozen lascivious men before and she would do so again. Of course, she thought, looking at the room full of large, dirty men, she had never dealt with a dozen all at once. “Unhand me, sir,” she said, wishing she’d had the sense to bring her pistols. She looked around for a weapon. There was a knife on the table. Perhaps she could reach it.

“The angel wants to me unhand her,” said the man called
Jim scornfully. “But I’m not ready to. What you gonna do bout it?”

Emma stomped on his foot as hard as she could and reached for the knife. In seconds she had it around his fat neck. If he wanted to he could wrench it free from her hand before she did any harm, but she hoped he was too stupid to figure that out. The only true ally in the time of crisis was a clear head, and few people kept one
when knives were pressed against their throats. The room was silent and everyone waited to see what Jim’s next move would be. No one was more interested than Emma.

“I’d let her go if I were you,” said a cool, smooth voice from the back of the room. “That there is the Duke of Trent’s lass, and even if she didn’t have a knife to your throat, you’d still be in an untenable position. You don’t want
the duke coming down here and making trouble. They say he knows what to do with his fists.”

Emma watched Jim digest this information. The ornery look was gone from his face, and he relaxed his grip. “Sorry, miss,” he muttered. “Didn’t realize.”

“Not a problem, sir,” she said, pocketing the knife, although she felt reasonably safe now. Then she walked over to the table of man who had helped
her. She offered her hand. “Mr. Squibbs, how lovely to see you again.”

He shook her hand and insisted she take a seat. “I would love to sit and chat, Mr. Squibbs, but I don’t have time. I came here following a gentleman and I’m fearful of losing him.”

“Ah,” he said, “a round man of medium height with a mole on his cheek?”

“Yes, that’s he precisely. Where did he go?”

Squibbs gestured to
the staircase to the right of the bar. “Went up there.” Emma thanked him for his help and moved to stand, but he stopped her. “You can’t go up there.”

“But I must. It’s a matter of utmost importance. Please do not stop me.”

“But the duke will have my head if I let you.”

“How do you know about the duke?” Emma asked, thinking that
ton
gossip would not reach this dirty corner of the city.

“He searched me out. He wanted me to promise to send him a message if ever I was to see you wandering the docks again.”

“I should hope you told him no,” she said, offended that the duke would conspire behind her back.

“Miss Harlow, when the Duke of Trent asks you to do something, you do it,” he said, almost as if explaining a simple mathematical equation to a small child. “He’s not a man one
wants to make an enemy of.”

Emma took exception to this line of reasoning but knew that to argue would be to waste more time. She shrugged, said excuse me and walked to the stairs. Mr. Squibbs followed, muttering under his breath. When she got to the top of the staircase, she was confronted with four doors. Blast it, she thought, why must there be four doors? She put her ear up to the first
one but couldn’t here anything except muffled moans. Was someone getting hurt in there?

Mr. Squibbs pushed her aside, took out one of his special hearing devices and held it up to the door. “Not that one,” he said, turning pink.

“Are you sure? I thought I heard—”

“Not that one,” he insisted more forcefully and moved on to the second door. He listened for a few seconds and then handed the
ear pieces to Emma.

She listened. It was indeed Sir Windbag’s voice, only he didn’t sound quite so pompous now.

“…the names of key English spies who have infiltrated the emperor’s army. I will take this information to my contact, who will deliver it to the emperor’s most trusted generals. Napoléon will be free and England will be conquered.

“This is helpful news, my friend. I’ll go tell
Devalier of what we have learned,” answered a voice she’d never before heard, though she recognized the faint French accent. “You leave for the white cliffs?”

White cliffs? thought Emma, puzzling for only a moment. “Dover,” she muttered under her breath.

“Good, good. Then I wish you God’s speed,” he said, walking toward the door.

Emma took off the listening device in a panic. Where were
they to hide? She pulled Mr. Squibbs into the far corner and kissed him. A large, tall man, Mr. Squibbs hid her entirely from view. She heard Windbag snort in amusement at two people behaving so indecorously in a public hallway. Then he was gone.

“You must accept my apologies, Mr. Squibbs, for treating you so cavalierly,” she said when she freed his lips. “I could think of no other way to disguise
my presence.”

“Not at all, miss,” he said, putting her at ease, “only I’d prefer it if ye don’t mention it to the duke.”

Although Emma knew it was no business of the duke’s whom she kissed, she assured him that she wouldn’t say a word. “Now I must go. The future welfare of England depends upon it.”

Squibbs looked at her oddly for a moment at this grandiose statement and then told her to
stay put. “Let me make sure he’s gone.” He returned presently, informing her that his carriage just pulled away.