A Rogue’s Pleasure (12 page)

Even reaping the wages of his debauchery, he was handsome as sin, the personification of her every fantasy. She bit her bottom lip. What right had she to passion, to fantasies even, when her only brother was likely to be enduring any number of unspeakable torments?

He sat on the sofa. “I have some news.”

Chelsea's heart stopped. “What kind of news?”

Jack scowled from the doorway. “Ye'll want to be alone, then.”

“On the contrary,” Anthony replied equably. “Pray join us. I want you to hear this too.”

“Aye?” Jack loped into the room.

Anthony divided his gaze between them. “I checked with my source at Whitehall. Robert never reported for duty.” He paused. “I'm sorry, Chelsea.”

She sank down on the cushion beside him, shaking her head. “I thought as much and yet I suppose a part of me continued to hope that the ransom note was someone's idea of a cruel joke. At least now I know the truth.” She managed a tremulous smile. “For that, I thank you.”

“Don't thank me yet. There's a great deal of work to be done if we're to track down the kidnapper and rescue your brother before the month's end. Did Robert have any enemies that you know of? Perhaps someone he'd met at university?”

She shook her head. “Like any young man, he'd gotten into his share of scrapes, but 'twas mostly high spirits.” She smiled in wistful recall of the misdemeanor that, a few short weeks before, had seemed a heinous crime. “He and some of his friends put a goat in an instructor's bed. Robert was sent down for his part in the prank, so I doubt the victim would have bothered with kidnapping him.”

“A goat, you say?” Anthony threw back his head and laughed. The flesh around his eyes crinkled and, despite everything, Chelsea's heart fluttered. “Your brother sounds a fellow after my own heart. Anything else? Perhaps the father or brother of a girl he'd compromised…”

The fluttering stilled, replaced by indignation. Really, the rogue must think all men were cut from the same cloth as his lecherous self.

“My brother may have gotten into the occasional mischief, but he is a gentleman. I assure you, he would never compromise an innocent.”

“Forgive me. I do not know him as you do,” he replied, although she fancied there was skepticism in his voice.

Piqued, she crossed her arms over her chest. “Perhaps you'd better tell us your plan.”

“One has only to examine the penmanship, the quality of the foolscap, to know that the author of the ransom letter is no common criminal but a person of education—and means. Such a person would not devote a whole month to guarding a prisoner when, for a pittance, he could hire henchmen to carry out the deed.”

From the corner, Jack gave a grudging nod. “Aye, 'tis the right o' it.”

Anthony continued. “If we locate the lackey, chances are that, in time, he will lead us to
your brother.”

Almost afraid to hope, she said, “But London must be full of cutpurses and other villains.” The sudden sparkle in Anthony's gaze brought home the hypocrisy of that statement. She blushed. “Where do we look for him or…them?”

“London pubs and gin shops have traditionally been fonts of gossip. I propose we start in Cheapside. We'll begin with those closest to the church where the ransom is to be delivered, then gradually expand our search.”

“'Tisn't a half-bad plan,” Jack conceded, eyeing Anthony with what looked suspiciously like respect.

Recalling the myriad alleys and narrow, snaking lanes with their profusion of tradesmen's shops, pubs, and tenements, Chelsea was skeptical. “Won't it be like searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack?”

Ignoring her, Anthony started toward Jack. “The East End is an alien world to me. If I am to infiltrate it, I shall require tuition.” He held out his hand. “Will you give it?”

Jack regarded the proffered hand for a long moment, and then clasped it. “For the young master, I'd make a pact wi' Satan hisself.”

Anthony grinned. “I'll accept that as a yes.”

Chelsea looked between the two men. A moment before they'd nearly come to blows and now they were behaving like two happy co-conspirators. It was all well and good that they were getting on, but she was beginning to feel shut out.

She summoned her rallying voice and said, “Now that we're all agreed, we'd best get started.”

Both men turned on her.
“No,”
they said, in unison.

Anthony gained his feet. “Jack will accompany me. You, young lady, are going to stay put.”

Indignant, she shot to her feet. “Don't be ridiculous. Robert is my brother. Of course I'm going.”

“No, you are not.”

To her shock, Jack agreed. “This is men's work. For once in yer life, accept that you're a girl.”

A
girl
. Chelsea felt as though she'd just been slapped.

“But, Jack—”

“No buts. I've gone along wi' yer schemes in the past, but this time I'm puttin' me foot down.” Jack stomped his large foot. The floorboards shivered. “His lordship and meself, we knows what we're about.”

“But, Jack, you and I, we're…partners.” She searched his face for signs of softening.

“Now, lovey…”

He's calling me lovey. That's always a good sign.

“Ye've already shouldered more than any woman aught. There's naught more fer ye ta do. Is there, milord?”

Deflated, furious, she glared at Lord Montrose. Damn him, this was all his doing.

“Not a thing,” he seconded, victory blazing from his brown eyes.

Chelsea felt her cheeks heat with anger. How dare Lord Montrose turn her own servant, her Jack, against her! “But—”

Jack cut her off. “We'll tell ye as soon as we knows somethin'.”

“The very second,” Anthony agreed, and it took all of her self-control not to slap the complacent smile from his face.

Jack laid a hand on Anthony's shoulder. “The first thing to be done is to get ye out o' them clothes. I've a cousin who owns a rag-and-bone shop by the docks. 'E'll see to it you're rigged out proper.”

Anthony's hand flew to his starched cravat. “What's wrong with my clothes?”

Jack cocked his head and regarded Anthony. “Nuffin, if you wants to be pegged as a member o' the Fancy as soon as ye crosses the threshold. 'Tis to the ale 'ouses we're 'eaded, not the bloody palace.”

“Hmm, you may have a point.”

“And for Gawd's sake, mind your
h'
s, man.” Stripping off his apron, Jack started toward the door.

Anthony tossed Chelsea a parting smile. “Have a pleasant day,” he had the audacity to say before following Jack out.

A pleasant day indeed
. Chelsea's gaze stabbed his retreating back. For a former military man, Lord Montrose was woefully ignorant of one timeless truth—losing the battle was not nearly the same thing as losing the war.

 

Robert pulled himself up onto his elbows and stretched his legs. The chains connecting his manacled wrists to the wall rattled.

How long have I been in this dank prison?
His last memory was of crouching down to examine a fellow traveler's horse that had thrown a shoe. A moment later, his head exploded.

He awakened here, wherever
here
was. There were only two of them, the “traveler” and his accomplice, a brawny half-wit called Luke. They'd kept him blindfolded at first—and drugged. Eventually they'd removed the cloth, even allowed him a candle. Not that there was much to see—the straw pallet he now occupied, a chamber pot, and the pine table where he took his meals, such as they were. Of late, his repasts had dwindled to watered-down ale and barley bread. His once-skintight inexpressibles hung loosely from his shrinking waist; with each day, he could feel his strength ebb. Perhaps it was his debilitated state that caused them to grow careless, for they often spoke in his presence. “Only a fortnight to go.” “Why caint we finish 'im now?” “Don't be a bleedin' idiot, Luke.”

The door opened, and the “traveler,” Stenton, swaggered in. He set a trencher of something foul-smelling and a mug on the table.

“Supper's served, me boy. 'Tis a bit late, but I'd business to attend. Better eat up while it's 'ot.”

Propped against the slimy stone wall, Robert steeled himself to ignore the hunger gnawing at his belly. “I wouldn't feed that rubbish to my dogs.”

Stenton snarled. “If I had me way, I'd feed
ye
to the dogs. After yer sister delivers the blunt, I may do just that.”

Robert gave a bitter laugh. “If you believe that, you're a bigger fool than you look. My sister hasn't a farthing to her name.”
Thanks to me
.

“Ye're lying!”

“Am I?” Defiance roiled through him. He glanced behind him to his red officer's coat, rolled up and serving as a pillow. “I used the last of our money to purchase my commission.”

“Liar!”
Stenton swept the edge of his arm over the table. The heavy pewter plate and tankard thudded to the packed dirt floor. He stepped over the muddy pool and advanced on the pallet. Robert braced himself.

Stenton lifted his boot and kicked.

Robert fell sideways into the filth, clutching his ribs. Pain, knife-sharp, spasmed through him. Knees drawn to his chest, he bit his lip to keep from crying out.

Stenton loomed over him. “For yer sake, ye'd bloody well better 'ope yer wrong.
Dead
wrong.”

Transformed by a tattered frock coat, checkered trousers, and several blacked-out teeth, Anthony had spent the better part of the morning, afternoon—and now evening—with Jack, trolling the seedy taverns fronting Cheapside's crooked, cobbled lanes. The
pièce de résistance
of his disguise was a wooden crutch like those used by the Cripplegate beggars. Given the quantity of gin he'd imbibed, he was feeling the need to lean on it in earnest. The tattoo in his temples had begun beating a half hour before, as they were leaving pub number nine. Or was it number eight?

It was dusk when they closed in on the entrance to yet another timber-framed tavern. The lamplighter had yet to make his rounds. Anthony could just discern the faded black lettering on the wooden sign swinging from the overhang.

“The Rutting Bull.” Beneath the name, a benign bovine countenance, paint peeling, regarded them. “Looks more like an old milcher to me.” Glancing back at Jack, he asked, “Are you sure this is the same place the kidnapper mentioned in his letter?”

“Aye, I'm sure. The Bull's been around since I was a lad—longer, most like.” He pulled open the knotted pine door. “'Tis one o' a kind.”

Over the past eight hours, Anthony had identified three immutable characteristics of East End drinking establishments—all the men were villains, all the women were fat, and all the liquor rotgut. Despite Jack's optimism, he doubted the Rutting Bull would provide much in the way of novelty.

Following Jack inside, Anthony ducked, narrowly avoiding smashing his forehead into the low lintel. Straightening, he surveyed his surroundings through the hazy glow of the tallow candles lit throughout. With its low, timber-framed ceiling, wooden booths, and profusion of tapped ale kegs, the tavern looked much like the others they'd visited.

They pushed through the press of unwashed bodies and settled into a corner booth. Various metal objects, all with different and intricate configurations, hung on pegs from the plaster walls. Anthony leaned his crutch against the wall and reached up to pull one off.

“What the devil is this?” He held it up. “Looks like an instrument of torture.”

Jack snorted. “'Aven't ye ever seen a tavern puzzle before?” He snatched it from Anthony's grasp. “This one's called Satan's Stirrup.”

Anthony frowned at the tangle of metal. “What has Satan to do with it?”

Jack shrugged. “How should I know?” He deftly disconnected the interlocking pieces. Expression triumphant, he looked to Anthony. “Now that I've done the 'ard work, think ye can put it back together?”

“Of course,” Anthony snapped. It was bad enough that Jack had matched him drink for drink and somehow managed to stay sober. He'd be damned if he was going to give way over a blasted toy. “I've maneuvered a company of a hundred strong through Spain and Portugal. I think I can manage a puzzle.”

Jack crossed his beefy arms and leaned back. “'Ave at it, then.”

Struggling to recall the original configuration, Anthony picked up one of the metal pieces and began searching for its mate.

“Give up?” Jack's good eye gleamed.

“Of course not.” Anthony frowned at the pieces scattered across the table, willing his muzzy head to clear.

Jack singled out two seemingly unrelated sections and fitted them together.

Anthony looked up from his attempt to shove the curved ends of the horseshoe through a narrow band. “Beginner's luck.”

Jack snorted. “There's only one beginner 'ere, and I b'aint 'im.”

Ears burning, Anthony watched him shift the orientation of the pieces until the open end of the horseshoe slid easily through the narrow oval.

“Why do I have the impression you've done this before?” he asked after Jack handed him the completed configuration.

Jack winked. “Compared wi' pickin' locks, this is child's play.”

He was about to ask if Jack would consider going for two out of three when a flaxen-haired barmaid sidled up to them.

She peered over Anthony's shoulder to the novelty. “Good show, luv. That's one o' the 'arder ones.”

Jack guffawed, and Anthony's ears grew hotter.

“Welcome to the Ruttin' Bull. Me name's Bess.” She fixed her smile on Anthony. “Name yer pleasure.”

Anthony lifted his gaze and found himself staring into two enormous breasts, the brown areolas visible through the thin muslin blouse. Looking at the barmaid's big, soft body, he couldn't help remembering how perfectly Chelsea's small, shapely breasts had fitted his palms.

“Brandy,” he said, throat dry.

Bess slapped her well-padded thigh. “Brandy indeed! You'm mortal funny.”

Blundering fool! First the blasted puzzle and now this. “Make it two gins.”

“Ye've got 'em…and anything else ye wants.”

Laughing, she turned and headed for the bar, wide hips swaying. Waiting for the tavern keeper to pour the drinks, she struck up a conversation with a gaunt, dark-haired man leaning over the rail.

Anthony nudged Jack. “Look over there. See the man talking with Bess?”

Jack glanced over his shoulder. Turning back, he asked, “The gallows-faced chap wi' the scar across 'is brow?”

Anthony nodded. “He's been watching us ever since we arrived. I've the oddest feeling I've seen him somewhere before, but I can't think where.”

The man inclined his shaggy head, his beetle's gaze locking with Anthony's. Anthony reciprocated the salute just as Bess returned with their drinks. She served Anthony first, the side of her breast grazing his cheek when she set down his glass.

“Is there nothin' else I can offer ye?” she purred. She nodded toward a flight of crooked wooden stairs. “I've a room upstairs. 'Tis a steep climb, I'll grant 'e, but ye'd not be sorry.”

Summoning a raffish smile, Anthony said, “Pretty Bess, ye tempt me sorely, but we're 'ere on business. As a matter o' fact, we was wonderin' who yer mate might be?”

She batted her sandy lashes. “Jealous already, ducks?”

“Mebbe. Mebbe a tad curious too? I've some business that wants conductin', and 'e seems a—”

“Sharp shaver,” Jack supplied.

Brow furrowed, she fingered a flaxen curl. “Name's Stenton. Bob Stenton. But his be a bad business. Take a piece o' free advice from 'er that knows and steer clear o' 'im.”

“Why is that?” Anthony rubbed his jaw, wondering if the barmaid knew in just how “bad a business” Stenton engaged. If so, she might prove a useful ally.

Lips pursed, she shook her head. “Cain't say as I know.” She was lying, Anthony was certain of it. Her next words confirmed it. “Besides, I b'aint no snitch.”

“Best see that ye keep it that way.”

Following her frozen gaze, Anthony looked up into Stenton's gold-toothed grin.

Eyes downcast, she fiddled with her apron. “Blimey, you know me better than that, Bob.”

Stenton grabbed her chin and pulled her to him, ignoring her yelp. “See you keep it that way. 'Twould be 'ard t'earn a livin' wi' that pretty nose o' yers slit.”

Anthony leapt up beside her. “'Ave done, mate. Bess and me was just 'avin at a bit o' slap an' tickle.”

“Oh, well, then, 'tis no 'arm done.” Stenton released the girl, who was shaking visibly.

“There's plenty o' Bessie to go about, ain't that right, me girl?”

The barmaid's voice quavered. “Right o', Bob.”

“O' course I is. Ain't I always.” Cackling, Stenton slapped her buttocks. “Now fetch us a round and be sharp about it.” He gestured to a bullnecked man sitting at a table in the corner, shoulders hunched. “Come o'er 'ere, Luke. There's gentlemen I wants ye to meet.”

Luke. Why did that name ring familiar?

He couldn't recall. But, if Luke were anything like his mate, he likely wouldn't think twice before slitting his own mother's throat and selling his sister if the price were right. Thank God he'd insisted Chelsea stay behind. Sliding his hand toward the tavern puzzle, his fingers closed around the horseshoe. Forged of solid iron, if brought up hard between the eyes, it would render a man unconscious.

“Me name's Bob. Bob Stenton.” Helping himself to a seat, Stenton held out his hand, the nails jagged and dirt-rimmed.

“Pleased to meet ye, Bob.” Anthony released the puzzle piece and clasped the proffered hand. “Me Christian name's Tony, though these days me mates call me Toeless. The big bloke is me mate, Jack.”

Stenton's gaze shifted between Anthony's crutch and Jack's patched eye. Looking back at Anthony, his thin lips cracked into a smile, revealing a gold front tooth.

“You looks like two blokes who've tangled wi' Boney an' come back the worse fer it.”

Stenton's conclusion was a logical one. These days former soldiers from the enlisted ranks flocked to British cities, swelling the already substantial beggar population. Maimed, ill of body—and, often, of mind—and without pensions they seemed to Anthony a constant reminder that he ought to try harder to count his blessings.

“Aye,” Anthony replied, tone sober. “Lost the better part o' me foot at Albuera. Jack here lost his eye.”

“Albuera, was it? A bloody business that.”

Anthony's scowl needed no coaxing. “And a good deal bloodier than it need 'ave been.”

“'Ow so?”

Anthony was about to launch into his carefully crafted tirade when Stenton's associate loped over. The ruffian took the seat opposite him, and Anthony immediately recognized the sloping brow, flat nose, and slack mouth. His every muscle tensed. Luke was undoubtedly the same man Anthony had fought on Westminster Bridge a few nights before. The gaze, meeting Anthony's from across the table, was blank.

For now. Who knew when Luke's recollection of that night might surface. If Anthony were found out, Robert Bellamy would be a dead man. And he doubted either he or Jack would
stay healthy much longer.

Jack's elbow, crashing into his side, returned him to the task at hand. Taking a deep breath, he continued. “Jack and me served in the Fourth under Cole. Safe and dry we was wi' orders from the top t'old back. But no, this infantry captain, Grenville were the bloody bastard's name, decides to play the 'ero and talks Cole into advancin'. I was one o' the first to go, sent out wi' a patrol of skirmishers. 'Twas less than an hour later that I felt the kiss o' the cannon.” He paused for effect. “The ball landed square on me foot.”

Stenton shot a wad of spittle onto the dusty floor. “Bloody lousy luck.”

“Luck be hanged.” Warming to his story, Anthony smashed a fist onto the table. “'Twas the work o' that devil, Grenville. 'E got off wi' barely a scratch and shipped 'ome to lick 'is wounds. Came into his uncle's blunt and lands, too, while blokes like me an' Jack must beg our bread or starve.”

“Calm yerself, lad.” Reaching across the table, Jack slapped Anthony's shoulder. Catching Stenton's eye, he shook his head. “Poor blighter. Can't seem to forget that, 'twere it not for Grenville, 'e'd be a whole man. I'm afeared 'e'll do 'imself an injury one o' these days.”

Stenton scratched his stubbled chin. “Ye sound like a man wi' an ax to grind, Toeless.”

“That I am. Fortunate for me, I've me nest egg tucked aside, though I'd wager the lot for the chance to dish up 'is lordship's just deserts.”

“I might be able to 'elp ye settle the score if ye're interested. How bad d'you want this Grenville bloke?”

Anthony and Jack exchanged glances.

A moment later, Anthony replied, “Bad enough as I can taste it.”

“Dependin' on how big your
nest egg
is, Luke and me might be able to arrange fer the good captain t'ave a l'il accident.”

A subdued Bess returned, served their drinks, and hurried away. Luke cupped his glass in both hands and lapped, gin and saliva trickling down the side of his round face. Still no sign of recognition.

Encouraged, Anthony went on. “Accident, pshaw. Where'd be the gain in that? Way I see it, the bastard owes me a pension, and I aim to collect.”

Stenton rubbed the gold tooth with the edge of his thumb. “'Ave you a plan?”

“Aye, that I 'ave. Grenville's family is even richer than he is. What do you reckon they'd do if 'e was to disappear sudden like, the night afore his wedding, no less?” He paused. Seeing Stenton's blank look, he supplied, “Why, I think they'd dig deep into their pockets to get 'im back, that's what.”

“A kidnapping!” Stenton's eyes glowed. “What'd you say to me and Luke lendin' a hand, for a share o' the take?”

Now was not the time to appear overly eager. Anthony curbed his impatience. “That depends. Ever done this sort o' work before?”

Stenton flushed. His heightened color emphasized the milky whiteness of the scar slicing through his brow. The next thing Anthony knew, the tip of a knife was pricking his Adam's apple.

“Ask anyone here abouts and ye'll find there's not a finer cutpurse than Bob Stenton, nor a grander bully than L'il Luke.”

Eyeing the proximity of the tavern puzzle, Anthony held up his hands. “Peace, friend. I meant no 'arm.”

Stenton's anger died as quickly as it flared. Tucking the blade back inside his boot, he confided, “Me and Luke pulled off a like job a'most a fortnight ago.”

“Ye don't say?”

“Aye.” He picked up his glass and dragged the gin noisily through his front teeth. “Me
employer
wanted a boy kept outta the way for a month. The lad were passing through the Downs on 'is way to London, so 'twas a bit tricky. Luke hid in the bushes, and I stood by the roadside and pretended me horse 'ad throwed a shoe. The lad, bein' green as a leek and a proper soldier boy, stopped to 'elp. Luke came at 'im from behind wi' a rock.” He smiled. “I reckon ye can fill in the rest.”