The Love List (17 page)

“As far as the rest of the world is concerned, your brother is the one reviving the List.  Everyone we’ve talked to believes it, from Joe Watts, to the girls in the street, even to Callie Grant.”

“I still don’t understand the need for secrecy.  It’s just a list of prostitutes, for God’s sake.”  He raised his hand before she could object.  “And a weapon to be used against Hestia Wright.  Yet if what you say about the war between Marstoke and Hestia is true, I don’t understand why he wouldn’t wish to take the credit for ruining her.”

“And what of Hatch’s ravings about a new order, and friends in high places?”  She frowned. 

“Yes.  I meant to ask if that was something else you and Miss Grant neglected to mention.  Has she been known for radical leanings?”

“No.  Hatch is a vicious pimp and a petty criminal, not a political creature.”

Struck by a sudden thought, Aldmere straightened.  “But Marstoke is.  And a damned unscrupulous one at that.”  He half rose out of his chair.  “Joe Watts,” he said numbly.  “Joe Watts said that the List is unfinished.  What if there is something else again that is meant to be included on the List?”

“Something political,” Miss Wilmott said with widening eyes.  “Probably inflammatory?”

“Layers and layers, Miss Grant said.  Never strike two blows where one will do.”  He was all the way out of his seat now.  “What if Marstoke hopes to strike two blows with the List?”

She was frowning, obviously casting about.  “Wasn’t there a rumor . . . something about your brother?”  She glanced up.  “He is said to be close with the Prince Regent, is he not?”

  Aldmere scowled in answer.  “Yes, but it is not a political relationship.  They share interests in art and music.  And carousing.”  His mind was racing.  “Still, there could be any number of things of a political nature that Tru might refuse to write.”

“It would explain the argument that your brother’s servant overheard,” she breathed.

“By God, this might be it.  We might have pieced this together.”  He stepped closer.  “It must be something unscrupulous.  Or dangerous.”  His jaw tightened.  “And Tru is meant to take the blame for it.”

She was up and out of her seat, as well.  Their gazes met.  Excitement—and other, absolutely unwise things—sparked in the air between them.

“I owe you an apology, Miss Wilmott.”

She laughed—and he nearly lost his balance, so fervently did that light and clear sound call to him.  “Only one?” she asked.

He swallowed.  “One will have to do, for now.  It would seem that you were right, after all.  We might have been wise to keep our hands on that manuscript.”

She grinned in surprise and delight.  “Then by all means, your Grace, let us go and correct your mistake.  Let's go get that List and settle this once and for all.”

* * *

Evening had drawn in while they sat inside.  They were close to the river now, and the mists had begun speculative forays over the banks.  Stealthy, it crept low along narrow alleys and cobbled streets, chasing what light was left in the day. 

Here was yet another tableau—a face of the city that Brynne had never seen when she was still her father’s daughter.  The fog curled about her feet, smelling of river miasma and kissing her ankles with damp.  All around them merchants and clerks and carters hurried by, eager to get home before the mists climbed high enough for things to hide in.

Things like the figure that melted out of the alley across the way.  Brynne might have missed her, had it not been for the weight of her stare. 

“There’s a main thoroughfare at the end of this street,” Aldmere said, his hand at the small of her back urging her on.  “We can hail a hackney from there.”

“Just a minute,” she said, stepping away.  “First, I have a promise to keep.”  Eyeing the traffic, she stepped quickly across the street.  With more ancient feminine insight than actual sight and sound, she felt the moment when the duke slipped after her.

She found the street urchin waiting just inside the damp mouth of the alley.  “You remembered,” Brynne said to her simply.  “I’m glad.”

“I’m hungry,” the girl answered.  She frowned as the duke caught up.  “What’s the job?”

“No job,” Brynne answered.  “Only two things.  First—you must tell me your name.”

A grin spread across the child’s dirt smeared face and she hooked her thumbs into the pockets of her filthy smock.  “I’m called Flightly,” she said proudly.

Brynne shook her head.  “Your real name.”

The girl rolled her eyes.  “Francis.”  Her tone had lowered significantly.  “Francis Headly.”

“I like Flightly better too,” Aldmere said wryly. 

Francis didn’t answer, only watched the duke with sharp-eyed wariness.  True to her name, she poised on the edge of flight—it was the manner she adopted every time he edged too near.  Smart girl.  Just so should Brynne regard Aldmere, but alas, she was much slower than the street-smart imp.  Her illogical brain kept looking past the man’s stubborn ability to see only what he wished, beyond his innately dictatorial manner and his tendency to take charge of every situation.  Every quality, in short, that she should revile after being so bullied and mistreated. 

Instead, despite herself, she seemed determined to notice his protective manner and the warmth of his large hand at the small of her back.  She let herself get excited by his strength and power, and distracted by that damned, missing smile. 

She shook her head.  “There is only one other requirement, then,” she said to Francis.  “You must be able to keep a secret.”  She lowered her brows into a skeptical frown. “Can you do it?”

The child snorted.  “Better’n Hatch can, fer sure.”

“That’s hardly a grand accomplishment, is it?  And this is a heavy secret, full of great responsibility.”

“I keep my smackers shut,” Francis insisted.

Brynne pressed her lips together, eyed the girl from top to bottom, and slowly nodded her head.  “Fine, then.”  Looking about, she stepped further into the alleyway and reached into her bodice.  Aldmere gave a violent start, but she ignored him.

Slowly she pulled out a carved wooden token.  “Do you know what
Le Cygne
means, Francis?”

The girl eyed the thing with suspicion.  “No.  Sounds foreign,” she said with disdain.

“It’s the French word for swan.  Do you see the swan etched into this side of the coin?”  She handed it over.

“Aye.  T’ain’t good money, then.”  Francis was clearly disappointed.

“It’s better than money.  Do you know of the bakery down in Jermyn Street?  It has the very same picture of a swan on its window.”

“Aye,” she said again.  “What of it?  Do you need something delivered there?”

“No.  Now this is the secret part.  You go to the back door of the bakery and show that token—and you’ll be fed.  The owner is a successful, busy woman who works long hours.  As long as the shop is open, she’ll welcome you in and fill your belly.”

“Just the once?”  The child looked as if she didn’t quite believe what Brynne told her.

“No.  Anytime.  For as many times as you need.  Now do you understand why I had to be sure you were trustworthy?  It’s one of the most closely guarded secrets in the city—and it is only for the ears of children.”

Francis looked up.  “Only nipsters?  No adults, then?”

“That’s right.  Children only—and you can bring some along with you and they’ll be given a token as well—but if an adult comes to the door, mentions the token to Madame Hobert or tries to bully or take advantage of her in any way, then they will cease to work.  The door will be closed to all.”

“Cor and almighty,” Francis breathed.

“I told you—it’s a heavy responsibility.  You must keep the secret and think carefully about whom you can trust with it.  You have to show discretion, not allowing others to catch you at it or crowding all together into the Madame’s kitchen.”

“Aye, I see whatcher mean.  There’s them would ruin such a thing out’ er sheer spite.”

“I knew you would understand.”  Brynne nodded.  “Now, the duke and I have important business to attend to—and if you hurry, you can still make it to Jermyn Street before the shop closes for the day.”

“Right you are ‘bout that.  I’m fast.”  The child grinned and danced backward down the alley, the token clutched tight in her fist.  She raised her hand before the mist swallowed her up.  “I’ll keep quiet.  And I won’t let the secret be spoilt!” she called. 

Brynne nodded and waved.  Beside her, the duke stood stiffly upright, staring with dark, reflective eyes that revealed nothing of what he thought. 

But she knew.  And still her heart stumbled inside her chest.  Her cheeks flushed and she had to fight the urge to grab him tight and make him understand, to spill all of her hopes and dreams and plans to help that girl and so many more like her.

She didn’t, of course.  She turned away, instead, and left the alley, heading for the more heavily travelled road ahead.

Aldmere, without a word, trailed after her.

Ten

So careful we were.  In public we kept ourselves to cool nods and occasional glances. But Captain Wilson made arrangements with our upstairs maid and through her stealthy private meetings were arranged—meetings that flared all the hotter for their secret nature.  Still, I was a lady, and careful not too pass too many boundaries.  Such exciting, heady times.  We were in heaven, the Captain and I, and in agony as well.

—from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

They found a hackney soon enough, though it was ragged and stunk of cabbage, cut with only the faint bouquet of urine.  Worse than the smell, though, was the silence.  Outside cool evening breezes hurried through the streets, but inside the air hung heavy with the oppressive weight of too many things left unsaid.

Aldmere sat ramrod straight, when all he wished to do was slump across the seat in exhaustion.  Never had he felt so tired.  World-weary.  Old.  He’d aged a hundred years during those moments in that dark alley.

Shifting, he rolled his eyes at his own fancifulness and glanced askance at Brynne Wilmott.  The daisy had wilted a bit.  She had given in and leaned against the wall of the coach, heedless of how she crushed her gaudy skirts. 

He blamed her for his misery.  She’d given him a jolt, those months ago when they’d first met, and today she’d yanked him awake.  She’d forced him to look beyond the walls of the dry, sterile empire in which he’d sequestered himself.  With a smile, she’d thrown a latch, opened a floodgate and if he wasn’t careful, if he didn’t close it up again, then things were going to rush in.  Things that he’d long denied himself.  Curiosity.  Idealism.  Laughter.  Hunger—good God, the
lust
that this chit inspired in him.

It struck him even now, as her skin glowed luminous in the darkness of the coach.  It would be soft, her skin, should he touch it.  Incredibly lush and smooth against him, like the plump petals of a rose.  And her hair—he’d like to let it fall, pin by pin, until it ran in an endless ebony river through his fingers.

He’d got so used to repressing every strong emotion that he barely felt them anymore.  Until now.  The urge to reach out and yank her hard against him nearly left him unbalanced.  He wanted to feel her yielding softness. He wanted to cradle her, and protect her from the cruelty of the world and her own folly.  He wanted to ravish her mouth, steal her soft, sweet breath, and brand her with the heat of his desire. 

He couldn’t do any of it, of course. 
Shouldn’t
do any of it.  This girl had enough pain heading her way, the last thing she needed was for him to add to it.  So he did the safe thing.  The right thing.  He pricked her.  Poked her like he was a spoilt, bored boy at church and she was the unlucky girl in the pew ahead.

“That kiss didn’t mean a damned thing.”

Surprise had him snapping his mouth shut.  That hadn’t been what he’d meant to say at all.

“Certainly not,” she murmured.  Her gaze never left the window. 

Certainly not
. 

Exactly the response he needed.  So why did it irritate the hell out of him? 

“I can see the steam coming right out of your ears.”   There.  That was what he had meant to say in the first place.  “A sure sign that you are thinking too hard.”

“Not thinking,” she said.  She’d gone soft and absent. “Dreaming.”  She turned her head far enough to catch his eye.  “You might wish to give it a try.”

“No,” he answered flatly.

She sighed.  “I’m not so used to it myself, but I’m making an effort to correct the oversight.”

He snorted.

“Is that unutterably masculine noise supposed to indicate your disapproval?”

“Disbelief,” he corrected her.  “I would have branded you a dreamer from way back.”

“Well, you would have been wrong.”  She turned back to the passing scenery.

“I don’t believe you.  I’ve got a vivid image in my head, of you in braids and a pinafore, perhaps a circlet of flowers on your brow.  You are lying in a field and conjuring up knights and castles, weaving images of grooms and wedding bells and long bridal trips.”

A small smile played about her lips.  He watched, immersed in a sudden dream of his own, a dream of claiming that promise of a kiss that lived there.  He’d got a taste of it earlier, but that’s all it had been.  A taste.  A teasing glimpse.  That kiss was her own gateway, the key to the depths of desire that lurked so tantalizingly close below her surface.  He knew it down deep in his black, scarred soul.

“Well, perhaps I did indulge in such things, long ago.  But all of that ended when my mother died.”

“Why?”  Surprise loosened his tongue, and he needed something, anything to distract him from the dangerous direction of his thoughts.

Still fixated on the view outside, she shrugged.  “Things changed.  My father judged I was old enough to take over the household, and I was abruptly busy with duties and responsibilities.  So many things that needed taken care of—him, his calendar and his cronies, political dinners and the housekeeping and the servants.  I had too much reality on my hands to spare time for dreams.”