Conspiring with a Rogue (5 page)

Whitney rose and gripped Lady Audrey’s arm. “I’m afraid our little ruse may be in danger.”

Lady Audrey pressed her finger to her lips and hurried to the open study door, her skirts swishing as she went. “Mr. Lloyd, Mr. Wentworth will be just another minute.”

Without waiting for his reply, she shut the door and rushed back over to Whitney, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her to the settee. “Who’s Mr. Lloyd?”

“The father of my best friend from childhood.”

Lady Audrey bit her bottom lip. “You’re right. This may not be good. I’ve saved up all my pin money.” She shrugged. “I could buy his silence if he knows anything.”

The offer would have been amusing to Whitney if she wasn’t so darned worried. “He doesn’t need your money.”

“Everyone needs
more
money,” Lady Audrey retorted.

Whitney shook her head. “Not him. His family founded Lloyd’s Coffee House and Merchants.”

At Lady Audrey’s blank look, Whitney continued. “It’s now the insurance company known as the Society of Lloyd’s.”

“Hmm.” Lady Audrey pursed her lips. “Usually I adore a rich man, but in this case, his money is rather inconvenient.”

Despite Whitney’s nerves, a smile pulled at her mouth. She patted Lady Audrey on the arm. “I appreciate your show of loyalty toward me.” There was no sense in delaying the inevitable. Whitney tugged on her coat, straightened her wig and ran a finger across the false mustache she wore. “How do I look?”

“Like a man,” Audrey said flatly. “Albeit a beautiful, delicate man,
but a man
.” Audrey touched Whitney’s cheekbone. “’Tis a shame to hide such a beautiful face. What I wouldn’t give for your bone structure.”

“Your structure’s just fine,” Whitney said, swatting Audrey’s hand away. “Send Mr. Lloyd in. And whatever you do, keep Mrs. Frompington busy. She’s too nosy by half, and I’ve caught her looking at me queerly several times over the last couple of weeks. As if she suspects something.”

“Don’t fret about Lucinda. She’s abed with a most terrible megrim.”

“Perfect.” Whitney frowned at her inconsiderate words. “What I mean to say is how terrible for her, but perfect for this problem. After we get through this, we need to engage you a chaperone who isn’t always laid up in bed.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” Lady Audrey retorted, walking to the door. “She’s the perfect chaperone for me. She’s hardly ever around.” Lady Audrey opened the door and disappeared into the waiting room.

Whitney’s stomach rolled with waves of nervousness, but before her uneasiness had time to consume her, Lady Audrey came back through the door with Mr. Lloyd in tow. As they entered the room, the strong smell of coffee filled Whitney’s senses. She started to smile with the fond memories of hours spent listening to Lillian’s father talk about the interesting men who frequented the Society of Lloyd’s, but thought better of it. Instead, she stood ramrod straight and stalked toward Mr. Lloyd, shoving her hand out at the tall, wiry gentleman before he had even taken note of her presence.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. I’m Mr. Wentworth.”

He grasped her hand in a firm, warm hold, his fingers curling completely about her bones. Keen gray eyes caught her gaze and held it. “I know who you are, Mr. Wentworth. The Duchess of Primwitty told me everything about you.”

“Did she?” Whitney asked with quiet politeness, though silently she fumed. What was Sally up to now?

A fierce frown spread across Mr. Lloyd’s weathered face. “I hope I wasn’t wrong to trust her.”

The poor man didn’t know just how taxing putting one’s trust in Sally could be. Whitney bit her cheek on her snort. “I’m sure you weren’t,” she forced herself to reply. Sally could be trusted, all right. Trusted to manipulate, connive, and cajole to get what she wanted. Poor Mr. Lloyd likely didn’t have a chance against whatever scheme Sally had contrived to involve him in.

Then again, if Whitney considered her recent past, she’d not fared well against Sally’s mechanisms either, considering that when Sally had caught Whitney making arrangements to flee her home in York the duchess had intervened and somehow convinced Whitney that London was far enough to escape Drake. At least Whitney had managed to keep the rest of her secrets firmly to herself. Sally may know Whitney’s whereabouts, but the duchess had no idea why Whitney had left, and Sally had sworn never to disclose Whitney’s location or Whitney would disappear without a trace. Of course, with practically no money left to her name, cutting connections with the only person she’d allowed to help her would be a daunting task, but Sally did not know that.

At Mr. Lloyd loudly clearing his throat, Whitney quickly refocused and gestured to the chair. “Please, have a seat.” She needed to find out what duplicitous plan Sally had come up with now, put a screeching stop to it and send Mr. Lloyd on his way. “I’m afraid I’m confused as to why you’re here.”

Mr. Lloyd settled onto the dark leather chair, then glanced at her. “For your services, of course. I had nowhere to turn to, for fear of the
ton
finding out, and then several days ago I ran into Her Grace, and I knew I could trust her. I wish I’d thought of her sooner. She was always a dear friend to my Lillian.”

“Was?” Whitney repeated, not liking the use of the past tense, as if Lillian was no longer around. Her skin prickled with the sensation that something was terribly wrong. Lil was the only person who knew about the threats against Drake, and Lil was the only person Whitney had kept a secret correspondence with, other than the money that had arrived every now and then from Sally. Whitney owed Lil a great deal, and for more than just the link she provided to a past that was forever lost.

“She’s disappeared, near a week ago now.” Mr. Lloyd’s deep voice wobbled with the admission.

“Oh, my God,” Whitney cried out, before she could stop her reaction. She raised her fist to her mouth and coughed furiously to draw attention away from her blurted response, but Mr. Lloyd didn’t appear to notice her blunder. His troubled gaze looked through her, not at her.

“Her Grace told me you were the best investigator in all of England.”

Sweat dampened Whitney’s palms and back. She knew what he was about to ask by the searching expression in his eyes and the high note of desperation in his voice. Wildly, she glanced around the room for an escape, but there was simply no escaping her love for her oldest and dearest friend.
I can’t take this case. I can’t. How can I not?
It was hard to hold in her groan.

“I’m desperate to find my daughter,” the man said brokenly.

Whitney dropped into the seat opposite Mr. Lloyd, her head pounding with worry for what she was about to do. Involving herself with this case was dangerous and foolish. She would very likely have to go back to York, the very place she’d given her word never to return to. What if she crossed paths with Drake? Her heart fluttered in a strange, hopeful fear. She’d be disguised.
Desperate people and their desperate needs
. She could not turn away from helping find her best friend. “Do you have any clues?”

Mr. Lloyd reached into his pocket and produced a small cream-colored card. “Just this.”

Reaching out, she took the calling card and glanced at the words as she ran her fingers slowly over the small black lettering.
The Sainted Order
. Sweat trickled down her back. The name seemed somehow familiar.

“Where did you get this?” She looked up, startled to realize just how aged Mr. Lloyd appeared. Last time she’d seen him, he was the robust picture of health. Now, bluish circles smudged the skin beneath his eyes, his hair appeared more gray than black, and lines of worry ran across his forehead in perfect parallels.

He shook himself as if discarding a bad memory. “I found it in Lillian’s escritoire.”

Whitney’s heart beat furiously against her ribs. “Perhaps it’s not hers or has nothing to do with her disappearance.”

A long sigh came from Lillian’s father. “Turn it over,” he said simply.

She flipped the card, her heart sinking. Lil’s flowery handwriting flowed across the back of the card.
Midnight, August 24, Lord Cadogan/Saint Lucifer
. It was just like Lillian to need to make herself a note of an appointment she had made. Lil would forget her birthday if not for her loved ones reminding her.

Whitney swallowed hard, her tightening throat not wanting to work. “Is this date of significance?”

“It’s the last day I saw her.”

Whitney flinched as she recalled the familiarity of the name. This was the club that had almost toppled Sally’s marriage when she learned her husband of a few days was a member of a secret sex club. Whitney leaned back in her chair, needing the support of something solid as she launched into the abyss of the unknown.

“I’ll help you.” Such simple words, but the implications were anything but. Somehow, she would have to make sure not to run into Drake, however much her heart longed for that very thing. Avoiding him should be simple. After all, it wasn’t as if Drake would ever be at a secret sex club. She nearly snorted at the thought. “Tell me everything you know,” she said, her mind racing with worry and concern.

Drake tilted his head to look at the black sky. He had a very clear memory of gazing at the stars with Whitney one night, her silk hair fanned over his arm, their legs pressed together as they lay in the fresh grass. With a grunt, he pushed the memory into the black hole she had left in his heart. The boat rocked beneath him, and the
swoosh
of oars gliding through the water whispered in his ears. A cool breeze surrounded him, soothed him, and for a moment he could almost feel Whitney’s warm lips on his, her taste of honey in his mouth.

The feel of her lips faded, but the ever-present longing in the pit of his stomach remained. He would never taste her lips again or feel her heat against his fingertips. He crossed his ankles and stared into the shadowy water, uncomfortably aware of Rutherford’s scalding stare radiating from across the boat. The man sat under a blazing torch, his face set in lines of concern. No doubt he was contemplating whether Drake would have a repeat performance of madness and once again barge into one of the other Saint’s rooms and throw a blanket over the woman entertaining the man.

Drake wondered, too. Two weeks ago, he could have sworn the dancing woman had been Whitney. And last week’s debacle of still not being able to perform with his appointed woman… What could he say? The flaxen-haired wench had smelled of lavender like Whitney used to smell. He had told them no more golden-haired women. Was it his fault he couldn’t perform under such circumstances or was it their fault for not listening to him? Pompous Englishmen never wanted to take the blame.

“I hope you’re not thinking about my cousin again.” The boat creaked and dipped as Rutherford stood and moved across the space to sit beside Drake. The cloaked servants scrambled to resituate themselves to keep the craft in perfect balance.

“I’m not,” he lied, impressed with how smoothly the lie came out. Maybe if he kept saying the falsehood, it would become reality. He hoped so.

“Good, because it was deuced hard to get Cadogan to allow you another chance. He thinks you’re a raving lunatic. Lucky for you that amuses him. Apparently, the man wants a Bedlam candidate in the Sainted Order.” Rutherford leaned close, his blazing eyes illuminated by the orange glow of the torch held beside him. “Don’t be fooled by Cadogan. He appears a harmless rake, but I’ve long suspected he’s anything but. Having said all that, you still have to fulfill the last requirement to become a member. This is your
last
chance, Sutherland. Do you think you can manage it tonight?”

Drake chuckled at the absurdity of the situation he was in. If anyone had ever told him he would have trouble bedding a woman, a beautiful woman, a woman whose sole purpose was to bring him pleasure, he would have called him a liar and given him a black eye.

“I’ll perform,” he stated confidently, but averted his gaze in case he betrayed the sliver of doubt he held. Drake concentrated on the flashes of shimmering silver scales appearing above the water rather than his own fears.

“Are you certain, Sutherland? These men, the Saints, are unpredictable.” Rutherford’s sigh joined the dry rattle of the dragonflies’ wings filling the air.

“I’ll bed the wench they give me and get my appointed saintly name.” He turned to face Rutherford and gripped the other man’s arm. “Don’t worry.”

Drake was concerned enough for both of them. He could not fail at becoming a rake. He’d already mastered the other vices of drink and gambling. It was this last vice that impeded his metamorphosis from a love-struck fool to a man who appreciated and loved all the pleasurable things life had to offer.

“I do worry,” Rutherford said. “Whether I like it or not, I now call you friend.”

“Quite a backhanded compliment.” Drake grinned at Rutherford, wondering how far this new friendship extended. “So do I get to call you Sin now?”

“Hell, no. You have to save my life before you may call me that.”

Drake brushed a dragonfly away, the hum of the wings still reverberating in his ear. “Well, you’ve just answered one question and raised another.”