[Samuel Barbara] The Black Angel(Book4You) (21 page)

Fiona grinned and fetched the hooded dun cloak from the bed. "Keep your head down till you're well away, and none will think to question it."

Adriana resolved to reward the girl richly upon her return home this afternoon. She donned the cloak and tied it tight beneath her chin, tugging the front low to cover the edge of the wig. "Come with me, and play lookout."

The conspirators tiptoed to the door, where Fiona peeked out and waved her hand for Adriana to follow. They hurried down the hallway and paused again at the top of the stairs. Fiona held up her palm and they waited for Peter, one of the footmen, to move away. His footsteps faded toward the kitchen and Adriana clutched Fiona's elbow tightly for a moment. "Wish me good adventure," she whispered.

Instead Fiona said, "Be careful."

Adriana rushed down the stairs and slipped out the door. For several blocks she kept her head down against the steady drizzle, keeping her cloak close around her. Nearby a butcher's she ducked into an alley and shed the cloak, leaving it on a protruding nail for some lucky washerwoman to find. Although the color pained everyone, it was warm and in good condition, and it pleased her to think someone would get use from it.

Loosening her shoulders, letting her arms swing free by her side, she strode out into the gray day. The clothes were surprisingly warm, and the hat she'd tucked under her arm kept the worst of the rain from her face. For the first few blocks, she was very conscious of her masquerade, afraid at any moment that someone would look at her in shock and surprise and point a finger.

But the clothes themselves seemed to cause a shift in her. Very quickly, she was striding along in the too big shoes, her arms swinging loosely, the coat billowing out around her thighs. As she walked, without any particular sense of destination, she thought again of Martinique and her brothers and their games of pirate on the beaches and in the forests. In those days, Adriana had thought nothing of donning a pair of breeches and a shirt stolen from a brother. If her mother had lived, she would have likely made Adriana behave in a more ladylike fashion, but her father had been more indulgent.

She found a jaunty little bounce in her step, and to go with it, she created a story for her male persona. She was a cousin to the St. Iveses, since anyone who knew the family would see the resemblance. Given the preponderance of mythological names both her mother and her sister—Leander's mother—had bestowed on them, she ran through the choices in her mind, and with an ironic smile settled on Linus. Linus St. Ives, just come from India, a younger brother to Leander.

Linus, she decided, was a rake and a notorious gambler with uncanny luck. These guineas in her pocket now were winnings from the faro tables last evening, and she was anxious to waste them appropriately.

But first, something for Fiona. She ducked into a haberdashery and purchased ten pairs of good woolen stockings, but it did not seem enough to repay the maid's goodness this morning, so she ordered several lengths of ribbon in various colors, then spied a thick velvet in the same shade as the girl's good dress. "Give me that one, too," she said. Her voice was deep enough that she didn't need to alter it much, but to be sure, she roughened it ever so slightly. The man behind the counter seemed to notice nothing amiss. "Very good, sir," he said, and pointed out some silver buttons. "Maybe she'd like those as well." Adriana waved a bored hand. "All right." Duty discharged, she emerged from the shop with a wild sense of freedom and lifted her head to admire the streets that were hers for the day. To do with as she wished. Tucking the package wrapped in brown paper under her arm, she set out to see what she could see.

In Barclay's coffee shop, less than a half mile from where Adriana surveyed the world, Tynan hunched over the scandal sheets and pamphlets he'd collected this morning. Although the coffeehouses boasted of egalitarian mixing, there were certain differences between the various establishments. The Stag and Pointer, which Gabriel frequented most regularly, had evolved from a medieval tavern. It crouched between worlds; the City and all its political glories on one side, with the town's most crumbling tenements on the other. Its clientele reflected the mix, drawing the politically minded from the darkest neighborhoods. Barclay's, situated toward the West End and the more fashionable areas, attracted idle young lords who came to boast of their amorous and gaming exploits to other bored and wealthy young men who would inherit grand estates and titles… someday.

Tynan did not particularly care for the crowd here. He'd learned, as a young man, to ape their ennui, but he found their idleness appalling. Even at twenty he'd been industrious, building on his father's modest success in glass manufacturing, seeking new methods of generating capital and more efficiency, which could, in turn, be returned to the workers and the business, creating work where none existed. He'd come to London in those days to learn what he might of the ruling class. He'd learned well, learned to affect the good-humored boredom, the lazy witticisms required for membership.

He'd also availed himself of the abundance of females—widows and actresses and bored wives—and the other extravagances available to the men of his class. He'd been quite young, after all.

Now he came here to reestablish connections he'd made in those days, to feel out the political possibilities that might exist for him, and to reinforce the notion that he was a mindless fop who'd do no harm in Parliament.

But this noon he sat alone, scowling away any overture that came his way. He drank coffee and grimly surveyed the papers he'd collected this morning, from the crudest to the most wittily elegant, all gleefully exploiting this choice gossip.

The drawing he'd shown Adriana had told him this was bad. Much worse than he'd originally understood.

The collection showed him just how bad it was—and with a burn in his gut, he found it centered most intently upon the wife he'd taken. In various levels of crudity, she was shown tearing off her clothes, lifting her skirts, chasing a pack of men with her tongue hanging out.

And in spite of himself, he was shocked.

He supposed he'd thought it a simple matter of a rake seducing a naive young virgin. The scandal sheets and lascivious tone of the drawings suggested that Adriana had been a more than willing participant. Was that true, or had Malvern's mother been busy?

"Spenser," said a voice at his elbow. "You're famous this morning, man."

He glanced up to find John Stead, Baron of Cheveley. Always gaunt, he now wore the hollow-eyed, pasty look of an opium addict. "Stead," Tynan said without interest. The man loathed him and made no secret of it, for Tynan had unwittingly stolen away an actress for whom Stead had conceived a desperate passion. "Enjoy it while it lasts," he added. "There'll be something to take its place next week."

Stead leaned a shoulder against the high back of the booth. "I don't think so." He crossed his arms lazily over his chest. "The trial starts Tuesday next, y'know. I'll be sitting with the House of Lords. Wouldn't it be a shame if we voted to hang?"

Tynan made his eyes cold. "A shame," he said, quelling the quick fear the words triggered in him. Then, recovering, he added, "Though not so much to me, since I stand to—" He broke off, his attention snared by a figure passing before the window of the shop.

"Excuse me," he said quickly, and leaving everything where it lay, pushed by Stead and rushed outside.

A thin youth in an apple-green coat and a black hat strode up the heavily trafficked street. He would have sworn the face belonged to his wife. Surely she had no more brothers?

Urgently, he pushed through the throng. The green coat disappeared around a wall. Tynan broke into a trot, ignoring the strange glances cast in his direction. He rushed around the corner and barreled into a stout matron in a black cap who upbraided him smartly with a sharp slap of her cane to his back. "Mind your manners, young man!"

"Sorry," he said breathlessly, peering over her shoulder. The green coat was gone. Although he followed for a bit longer, it was plain the figure was lost.

St. Bridget, he prayed soundlessly, don't let her be that much of a fool.

Adriana thoroughly enjoyed her day. She strolled boldly through the streets of London, stopping when she wished to browse the shops and stalls, nodding to gentlemen, smiling at ladies. She ducked into the infamous Child's to warm her hands and drink a cup of coffee, a shiver of cold fear and reckless excitement burning together on her spine. The men about paid her little mind when she picked up
The Spectator
and hid her nose behind it. The coffee was strong and hot, and after perusing the political news for any word of Julian's trial—there was none—she was on her way again.

By late afternoon the drizzle had stopped, but a cold wind came after it, cutting through the wool broadcloth to her very bones. After so long a day of walking, she was tired in a pleasant way, her spirits much improved. What cared she for the gossip of society? How could they touch her if they could not even see her?

It was a heady feeling indeed, and although she knew it was also made mostly of bravado, the relief from worry and shame was so deep she embraced it entirely. She was loath to give it up, to return home to the silence of the conservatory, the boredom of writing more letters.

For a moment she wondered about the possibility of calling on Cassandra, but her sister's note had made plain that she was engaged for the day. Idly, Adriana wondered what task held such urgency, and she realized with surprise how little she really knew of the details of her sister's town life. Cassandra might entertain lovers all day, or act on the stage, or be engaged in some other scandalous lifestyle that she knew nothing about.

Not likely, Adriana thought, smug in her own daring adventure. Cassandra had always been exceedingly cerebral. It was a great deal more likely that she'd found a commission to translate some Greek or Latin obscurity for the popular press. Adriana had read some of Cassandra's previous work, and her sister did have a flair, though Adriana could not imagine anything more dull.

The autumn sun began to sink by just past three, bringing new urgency to her need to decide what to do. It would be sensible to hail a carriage to deliver her a few blocks from the town house, but though she passed two in the rapidly chilling fall gloaming, she did not raise her hand.

And as if she'd known all along where she meant to end up, she turned into a narrow, old street near the City walls and paused uncertainly, disliking the sudden change in the spirit of the neighborhood. These were not at all the friendly streets she'd browsed today.

But there, housed in an ancient inn with half-timbered walls, was a sign announcing the stag and pointer. It stood between a bookshop and a tobacconist's. The bow-fronted window glowed with a cheery orange light.

Gabriel's haunt.

For most of the day she'd carefully steered clear of any of the places she might meet her own set, or anyone who would know her. It was not difficult—it had, after all, been five years since she'd been abroad in London, and her face had changed in that time. She knew people saw what they wanted to see, too, so they saw a handsome, effeminate youth of good family.