Almost a Gentleman (46 page)

"It was the happiest day of my life—and his mother's too, because of course I brought the news home to her—when he finally took a hand to you.

"But you wouldn't be stopped. I don't know how you did it, but you made him feel worse and worse, even those times he'd use his cane… I watched through the keyhole, I did, wish it had happened more often.
Finally
, I'd think, he'll show her what's what. But you'd just take it. Couldn't you have pled for his mercy? Couldn't you have asked for forgiveness? Couldn't you have let him win one, just once? Not you. You'd just pick yourself up and walk out of the room."

There was nothing she could say. For she
couldn
't have asked for forgiveness—not when she'd known that she had done nothing wrong.

Poor Henry. Trimble was right, he'd been the very image of a gentleman. All image and no substance whatsoever.

And although
she
remembered their last months together as an endless humiliation, evidently it hadn't seemed that way to him. Somehow he'd never been able to degrade her as he'd wanted. As badly as he'd treated her, it had never been enough to elevate himself.

Of course, she reminded herself, mistreatment of others rarely did much for a person's sense of self-worth. Most people simply knew this fact—from a quick look at the pitying expression on Alec's face, she suspected that he'd known it from babyhood. How sad that Henry had never learned it.

"We thought that you'd died. But when we discovered that you'd survived and were disguising yourself as a gentleman… and taking pretty boys to bed…"

"
One
pretty boy." Somehow she wanted to make that distinction very clear to Alec.

"One pretty boy and one meddlesome earl," Trimble corrected her.

Alec nodded slightly, having finally worked his way through the plot. Quaint young man, she thought—he looked so satisfied to have understood the situation that he didn't seem worried about the danger he was in.

"What do you intend to do with me? And with Lord Granthorpe?"

"Well, you'll just have to wait and see, won't you? Won't be long now. Sit tight, we're almost there."

It was one thing, Archie Stokes thought, to have followed Marston's carriage almost to Devonshire, in daylight and over open country roads. But quite another to figure out which of the identical black cabs traversing a crowded midnight Piccadilly was the one he wanted.

He supposed that was what they'd intended. Clever buggers. He hated it when his adversary was clever; seemed like cheating, somehow. They could have taken her anywhere—her and Lord Linseley's son. Stokes shuddered, imagining having to confront his employer with
that
failure.

He couldn't imagine it—which meant that he couldn't let it happen.
Think, Archie, where would they take her
? For there was no point pretending that he hadn't utterly lost sight of her cab. He'd simply have to go where he was sure they were going.

For he
was
sure. That was the odd part of it. He had no idea who the villains were, but after all this time he'd learned a little about how they saw things. And what he knew was that, in all the foggy vastness of midnight London, with its countless filthy alleys and dens of iniquity, there was only one place they wanted to do their mischief. Same place they'd dumped Billy. Same place they sent their hateful letters. They could
hurt
her anywhere. They wanted to despoil her home as well.

"Turn right," he told the coachman. "We're going to Brunswick Square."

"Dash it, if only I'd brought the pistol that I keep under the seat of my carriage," Admiral Wolfe muttered. "It's useless to Stokes, since he doesn't know where it is."

He'd insisted, over Kate's objections, on getting up and walking around. But he'd been right, she thought. He was quickly becoming steadier on his feet, and the blood no longer flowed from that ugly cut. Still, he did look rather dreadful, livid from the shock of the blow, crusted with dried blood, and soaked in the muck of the streets. Rather as she must look, she suspected.

She reached for her bonnet, but she seemed to have lost it somewhere. He smiled. "You're beautiful tonight."

They could be arrested for making a spectacle of themselves, she thought, two filthy, disheveled, no-longer-young people, kissing passionately beneath a street lamp.

"I have enough money in my pocket for a cab," he said. "But in which direction do we sail, mate? Where do you suppose they've taken their hostages?"

She squeezed his hand. "I should have mutinied, you know," she said, "if you hadn't asked 'where do
we
sail?'"

"I know."

"It could be anywhere, I suppose." She frowned. "I can't imagine what's in their minds, even though I'm pretty sure I know who's behind this. We could go to the… culprit's house, perhaps. But her servants would simply tell us she was asleep.

"No, there's only one place to go, John. I don't know if it's wise or stupid, but please tell the cabman we want to go to Brunswick Square."

"There's nothing for it, Elizabeth," Mr. Andrewes lit the bedside lamp. "I can't sleep not knowing where Simms is: I'm going to Brunswick Square to look for him. Of course I don't expect Miss Phoebe home yet, but your brother likes his sleep. If he didn't come home tonight, there's something amiss, you can count on it."

"Quite right, dear," his wife replied. "He
should
be home by now. But he's so conscientious, wanted everything to be perfect when she moves back in tomorrow, you know. You must be very careful, though."

"Hmm, wish I had some weapon more prepossessing than a tailor's rule. Ah, I'll take the poker from the fireplace."

The last soldier in this gathering ragtag army had only now reached the outskirts of London. Chilled, exhausted, muscles sore from riding over miles of icy road, he tried to encourage his horse onward, but the poor mare was just as tired as he was. He'd have to feed and water her before he proceeded. Perhaps he should simply tether her somewhere, risk having her stolen, and take a cab. Well, at least he still had food for the horse. He'd finished up
his
provisions—the pie and cold goose—many miles ago.

Still, Lord Linseley thought, the accident and injury had been worth it. He'd passed over impassable roads. He was here, just as he'd promised himself. Well, almost here. Just a little more to go, David, he told himself, and you'll sleep in Brunswick Square tonight.

The cab did, in fact, soon make its way to Marston's house in Brunswick Square. Trimble hustled Phoebe and Alec out of the vehicle and up the front steps, warning them that if either of them made a sound the boy got it then in the head.

How strange, Phoebe thought: the house was all lit up, as though Marston was giving one of his intimate late night parties. Four large, strapping footmen stood at attention in the front hall, quite ready, from the look of them, to usher guests into the salon or dining room. But the only guests were she and Alec; the tall, smirking men in velvet breeches were here to keep everyone else away.

"Up the stairs," Trimble said now, half-dragging, half-shoving them to her bedchamber.

This room was particularly bright; the flame in every gas lamp, it seemed, had had been turned as high as possible. It took a minute to adjust her eyes after the dimness of the cab. And so Phoebe heard her enemy's voice while her enemy's face was still taking blurry shape before her eyes: Fanny Euston, Lady Claringworth, a feeble old woman grasping a heavy cane in shaking hands. Solicitously, Trimble took his place beside her chair.

"Good evening, Phoebe." The old lady's voice was harsher and weaker than Phoebe remembered, but it still carried considerable authority. Out of habit, she almost began the little bobbing nod of respect that her mother-in-law had liked, almost a curtsey. She stopped herself—to hell with curtseys—and stood very tall in front of the armchair, with Alec at her side.

"Good evening, Fanny." Before this moment, she'd never called her mother-in-law anything but "Your Grace."

"Show a little respect," Trimble hissed.

The old lady laughed, if the harsh sounds accompanying the rictus seizing her face could be called a laugh.

"She's always been arrogant." Her voice came out a wheeze. "You could fairly taste her rudeness, even when she was pretending to be otherwise. Why should tonight be any different? The only difference is that tonight she'll die for it. As she should have done before she ever got her hands on my poor Henry."

"Found her with a boy, did you?" She seemed to be speaking to Trimble now, though it was difficult to follow the movement of her eyes. "Splendid."

Trimble nodded proudly. "Lord Linseley's son, my lady. Of course, I haven't yet told them what's in store for them. I thought you might like to, my lady."

"Well, it's simple enough," Lady Claringworth seemed impatient. "We shoot both of you—you in the heart, him in the side of the head, as though he'd taken his own life after taking yours. We'll arrange the tableau after you're dead, of course."

Of course
. Phoebe wasn't surprised. What was surprising was how calm she felt. There could be a way out of this, she thought, if I can think this out very clearly.

Ask them some questions
, she told herself.
After all, they're proud of themselves, and it's not as though they're going to be able to dine out on it. Give them a chance to boast
.

"But why should he shoot me?"

"How silly of me to forget to tell you that part. But my mouth is dry. You tell her, Trimble, while I drink some water."

"He kills you, the police will surmise, because he's just discovered that Phizz Marston is a woman. It shocks him, you see—just as the scandal sheets will shock everyone with the news."

"And how will it be apparent that he's discovered I'm a woman?"

"Well, what do you think? When the police come to investigate, they'll find you half naked. Take off your coat; it'll save us the trouble. Yes, that's good. And the cravat now, too."

She shuddered to lose the protection of those garments, but she complied. Nasty, she thought, looking at the white linen at her feet, to end up as an item for a scandal sheet.

The old lady had laid down her cane while she picked up a glass of water from a table beside her. The cane would make a formidable weapon, Phoebe thought, if she or Alec get hold of it. If they just were a little closer to it. If the plan she was quickly conceiving could be put into action.