The Scoundrel Takes a Bride: A Regency Rogues Novel (11 page)

The Queen’s Head Tavern
S
EVEN
D
IALS
S
T
. G
ILES
P
ARISH
L
ONDON

“What do you mean, the boy got away?”

Robby Filchum didn’t like it much when he had to talk to the master. For one, the
boss went by “the Bishop” instead of his real name. True, everyone in the gang had
themselves a nickname. Robby himself was known on the streets as Stonehenge for his
thick, massive build and what he could do to a man with his fists. That didn’t mean
he’d given up his Christian name. Would he want a doxie crying out “Stonehenge” with
him on top of her?

“I’m waiting for your answer,” the Bishop pressed, not bothering to look up from the
papers he’d been examining when Robby had arrived in his office.

“Rex and I had him run down—nearly, anyway,” Robby began, pushing all thoughts of
doxies—and him on top of doxies—from his mind as best he could. “We split up before
hitting the Seven Dials with plans to catch ’em on Bowl Yard. I was on his heels,
ya see, as we hit the Litchfield. So was one of the gents. And—”

“Gents?” the Bishop asked, interrupting Robby’s exciting tale. “Not from St. Giles,
then?”

“Not from the looks of him. Fancy clothes and all. And when he talked, it was all
proper and such. And the other weren’t from around here. He had an accent—a foreign
accent. Indian, I think. He wore an odd white hat and had dark skin.”

The Bishop looked up from his work, a spark of interest in his eyes. “You talked with
the gents? And how did that opportunity present itself, considering you were meant
to be capturing Mouse—not making conversation?”

“Didn’t have no choice,” Robby replied simply. “The foreigner knocked Rex to the ground.
Done more than that, come to think of it. Rex was alive. He just couldn’t move nothing.
Not his arms nor legs. The foreign fella with the odd hat said he’d done something
having to do with a snake.”

“A snake?” the Bishop repeated disbelievingly.

Robby had never gotten to know the master well, but he knew enough not to test the
man’s patience. “Not a real snake, no. Like a punch, only not—something what Miss
May’s boys do. You know, the oriental arts? That fancy fighting instead of what works
best; plain old punches and jabs what does the trick.”

The man never lost his temper with no one, Robby thought. No, he stewed all quiet
like when he was angry, then had someone else do his dirty work.

And the master was looking a might too calm for Robby. “The foreign fella did the
same thing to me that he’d done to Rex. No matter what I tried, I couldn’t move. I
could hear, though. The three of them talked a bit before running off. From the sounds
of it, the posh one knew Mouse. Called him by name even.”

Robby felt a tug of regret for adding that last bit, not sure if the master would
be happy with the idea of Mouse working for a man outside the Kingsmen. Either way,
the boy was already dead in the Bishop’s
eyes. Nothing Robby could do about that. And it was Mouse’s own fault he was in such
a mess.

If the boy had followed orders and not gone poking about in the man’s private business,
Robby and Rex never would have been sent after him in the first place. But Mouse had
to be clever. And fast. Two things the master found useful. He should’ve just stuck
to the tasks he was best at doing.

“And how do you plan to retrieve Mouse?” the Bishop asked, his voice controlled and
quiet.

Robby didn’t like quiet. He’d never been anywhere that wasn’t filled with screaming
and fighting. It wasn’t natural, to his way of thinking.

Nor was it natural for him to do his own planning. He wasn’t ever asked to think.
Only do.

He wasn’t sure he liked it. There wasn’t nothing to be done about it now, though.
“Well, there can’t be too many gents with foreigners for friends wandering about St.
Giles, now, can there?”

“And?” the master pressed, turning his attention back to the papers on his desk.

“And we’ll find them. Once we do, I’ve my ways of convincing people to give me what
I want. We’ll get Mouse, don’t you worry.”

The Bishop dipped his quill into an ink pot and tapped it efficiently. “Oh, I’m not
worried. Because you’ll have Topper along with you. Rex will be busy elsewhere.”

Robby did his best to hide his disappointment, though his bulbous nose wrinkled at
the mention of Topper. He was smart enough, that Topper, but mean as a baited bear.
Some said he was in league with the devil. Robby figured if anyone was working hand
in hand with the Old Scratch, it would surely be Topper.

“All due respect, sir. But Rex and I can take care of things.”

“You’re mistaken, Stonehenge,” the Bishop said, his
pen scratching as he wrote on the paper before him. “If you did, Mouse would not be
lost. Surely even you can see the sense in that.”

God, but Robby got tired of thems with brains reminding him that he was dim, he thought.
As far as he was concerned, smarts only got you in trouble. Look at Mouse, for crying
out loud. Besides, the saddest people Robby knew were those who thought too much.
A curse, intelligence.

“Suppose so,” Robby reluctantly agreed. “Still, Topper’s a mean ’un. You sure you
want him chasing after Mouse?”

Rumor said Mouse was a favorite of the Bishop’s. Some claimed the boy was being groomed
to take over the master’s job when he eventually moved up the ladder of the Kingsmen.

“We all have our talents, Stonehenge,” the boss answered. “Topper’s on the north side,
taking care of something for me. I’ll let him know to find you once he returns.”

Whatever Mouse had seen, it was worse than Robby ever could have imagined. Either
that, or being the man’s favorite didn’t pay.

“Right,” Robby replied, a sinking feeling settling in his gut. “I’ll be waiting at
the—”

“He’ll find you, Stone. No worries on that regard.”

Robby envied Rex. Why was it him, Robby, who’d been sent for by the master? Rex had
as much to do with the shambles they’d made of the situation as he did. Maybe even
more, if one thought about it hard.

Robby wasn’t one to hold a grudge, though. Never had been, and never would be, he
thought staunchly. He liked Rex well enough and wished him no harm. Hell, they’d had
the same chance to be standing where Robby stood now. It wasn’t Rex’s fault he’d come
up lucky.

“That’s all for now.” The man’s voice was its usual chilly and calm tone.

Robby turned around and made for the door, closing it quietly behind him. No, it wasn’t
nobody’s fault that he was in the master’s black books and stuck working with Topper.
But it sure was a crying shame.

“Shall I see to the bed linens now, Lady Sophia?”

Sophia ceased running the quill along the seam of her still-sensitive lips and laid
the writing instrument down. “Yes, Milly, thank you.” She smiled at the young woman’s
perfectly executed curtsy and turned her thoughts of last night’s regrettable kiss
to focus on the charming girl. Her rough cotton skirt was caught up at precisely the
right angle, the gray material and white apron lifted just enough to clear the top
of serviceable black boots without exposing her stockings. She lifted her head, color
flushing her round cheeks as she peered at Sophia in inquiry.

Milly was one of the less heartbreaking cases at Halcyon, if such a term could be
applied. Milly’s sickly mother, once in service to the Duke of Marley, had sent her
illegitimate child to Mrs. Mason in the hope that she could learn the skills necessary
to one day secure a place for herself in one of the grand households.

And though Mrs. Mason did not typically take on such girls, Milly’s cheery attitude
and dimpled smile stole the woman’s heart and she’d agreed.

“Lovely,” said Sophia.

“Thank you, my lady, you are too kind,” Milly answered,
bobbing again in an abundance of exuberance, her face flushed with pride. Then she
dropped another curtsy, once more for good measure.

“Milly, your curtsy is coming along quite nicely,” Langdon commented as he entered
the small study at the back of the house.

The girl emitted a cheep of embarrassment. “Lord Stonecliffe,” she uttered before
dipping a low, final show of respect and quitting the room.

Sophia gave Langdon an amused look and shook her head, hopeful her sudden unease at
his appearance was not noticeable. Would he sense her growing guilt over the altogether
foolish kiss?

“It was a compliment,” he argued, clearly mystified—both with Milly’s predicament
as well as Sophia’s.

“From a lord—and a handsome one at that. She’s terrified of you,” Sophia explained
with mock censure, relief easing her nerves. She took in the gleam of his polished
boots, his perfectly fitted coat, his intricately tied cravat, and smiled. “Surely
you’re aware of just how intimidating you really are, aren’t you?”

Langdon’s brow furrowed as he feigned serious consideration of Sophia’s accusation.
“Hmm, is that right? Is it the ‘lord’ part or the ‘handsome’ bit?”

“Both,” Sophia replied, laughing as an endearing grin broke out across his face.

Langdon leaned casually against the door frame and folded both arms across his chest.
“Really? And yet, I’ve failed to convince you to give up your work with the Halcyon
Society. I cannot be as scary as all that, then.”

Sophia sighed. Langdon meant well; he always did. And if Sophia would simply live
in a heavily fortified castle with a moat full of crocodiles and her own personal
dragon? Well, such conversations as the one they were about to engage in, for the
221st time, would not be needed.

Sophia found castles drafty, crocodiles bad company, and dragons hard to come by.

And more important, she valued her independence—and craved more by the minute. The
sketch of Mouse’s brand called to her from its concealment beneath the record book
on the desk.

“I know you only want to guarantee my safety.” Sophia tried her best to sound appreciative
rather than provoked.

“Only?” Langdon countered diplomatically. “There is nothing more important to me than
your safety, Sophia. You know that I respect and admire Mrs. Mason’s work. Still,
you must admit that keeping such company as you do here is not necessarily in your
best interests.”

Actually, it was, Sophia thought instantly. The Halcyon Society made Sophia feel useful;
as if, somehow, saving one woman from her mother’s fate could explain, in part, why
Sophia lived. Surely Langdon realized this?

“I will not live in hiding,” Sophia replied, “and there is no point in asking me to
do so.”

Langdon pushed off from the door frame and walked nearer, frustration gleaming in
his eyes. “Very well. If you’ll not lock yourself away, then perhaps you’ll accompany
me to Gunter’s?”

Mrs. Mason appeared in the open doorway, stopping abruptly at the sight of Langdon.

A corner of the sketch peeked out from under the record book as if calling to Sophia.

She beckoned for Mrs. Mason to enter. “I would like nothing more,” she told Langdon.
“But I fear there are still a number of tasks I must accomplish before this evening’s
ball.”

It wasn’t a lie. At least not entirely. Still, the disappointment in his eyes matched
what Sophia felt for her increasingly troublesome behavior.

Langdon acknowledged Mrs. Mason with a nod, and
then bowed before Sophia. “I’ll leave you to your work, then. I’ll see you this evening.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Sophia said, watching as he turned and walked from the room.

“Work, my lady?” Mrs. Mason asked. “Is there anything I might help you with?”

“No, not as concerns Halcyon. I wonder, Mrs. Mason, would you mind answering a few
questions about London gangs? It would take only a moment of your time,” Sophia asked,
worrying the edge of the drawing with her finger.

Mrs. Mason sat down in the chair opposite Sophia, her eyes lit with curiosity. “Not
at all, my lady.”

Sophia slipped the piece of foolscap from beneath the book, revealing the crude drawing
of the chess piece. “Do you recognize this?” she asked, holding the paper up.

“Where did you get that?” Mrs. Mason asked. Her voice held a faint echo of shock and
her lips pinched with nervousness. She edged abruptly back in her chair, seeming to
shrink away from the paper.

“I made the sketch. I recently saw the figure branded on a boy’s shoulder,” Sophia
explained. The delicate hairs on her nape and arms lifted in warning as Mrs. Mason
attempted to school her features into an expression of calm.

“Why would you have reason to see a young scamp’s bare shoulder?” The older woman’s
fingers trembled and she folded them tightly together in her lap. “Did he come by
while you were here? Was he begging for food or clothes? Did he threaten you? If this
should happen again, Lady Sophia—”

Sophia ignored the flurry of questions and focused on Mrs. Mason’s first reference.
“Why do you assume he was a scamp?”

Mrs. Mason stared at Sophia. For the first time in
their acquaintance, her gaze was hard and unreadable, and Sophia glimpsed the woman
she had been during the years she’d spent as a prostitute.

Then the moment passed and Mrs. Mason’s gaze slid from Sophia’s.

She stared at her lap, where her hands were gripped tightly together. “Perhaps you’ve
been spending too much time with the Runners,” she suggested, her voice once again
returned to her normal easy tone. “The word ‘scamp’ is hardly cause for alarm.”

The Runners always seemed to come up whenever someone was trying to evade a question.
Sophia had come to view the recurring references with amusement, although she could
not find the humor in Mrs. Mason’s obvious discomfort.

The woman was frightened, that much was clear. And trying to hide her fear.