Tiger's Eye (19 page)

They descended two flights of stairs to end up in a wide hallway, the walls of which were covered with red flocked paper. Two large parlors opened off either side of the hall, and a dignified-looking butler was just closing the door after seeing a gentleman on his way into the inky blackness of the street beyond. A chandelier flickered overhead, and large gilt mirrors were everywhere.

Even so late at night—or early in the morning, depending upon how one looked at it, as it had to be nearly dawn—the downstairs rooms were filled with people. Well-dressed gentlemen strolled about the elegantly furnished parlors, looking over the shoulders of others of their sort as they played at cards or dice. Liveried footmen offered various liqueurs to the gaming gentlemen. Females in gaudy, low-cut gowns hung about the men, rubbing their shoulders and whispering in their ears as they made their wagers.

“Is anything the matter, Miss Pearl?” the butler asked, hurrying forward with a worried expression.

“There’s been trouble abovestairs, Sharp. Some men found their way up to the third floor who should never even ’ave been admitted to the Carousel in the first place. The Tiger is up there now, and I imagine ’e’ll want to be talkin’ to you about it.”

Sharp seemed to pale. “The … the Tiger is above-stairs? But, Miss Pearl, I’ve been at the door all night and I never even saw him come in. And you know I’d never admit anyone—not anyone!—who wasn’t on the admission list!”

“Well, they got up there some’ow.” Pearl shook her head. “And the Tiger’s up there, too. Take a footman with you and go up to ’im. There’s quite a mess to be tidied up, as well.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Pearl.” Sharp sounded as miserable as he looked.

“You tell that to the Tiger,” Pearl said, and steered Isabella away, leaving the butler practically wringing his hands as he signaled to a passing footman.

Pearl’s chamber—really a suite, consisting of a bedroom and sitting room—was located on the ground floor at the rear. A maid, pockmarked and ill favored, came toward them as Pearl opened the door, but Pearl dismissed her with a gesture. The maid curtsied and took herself off, closing the door behind her.

The rooms were decorated entirely in shades of white and gold. Isabella looked around, impressed with the sheer sumptuousness of everything. Pearl helped her to a gold-silk-upholstered settee that dominated the sitting room. Isabella sank down upon it thankfully.

“Brandy, angel?” Pearl asked, crossing to a table topped with a silver tray holding several bottles and glasses.

Isabella shook her head. Pearl poured the brandy anyway, into two large snifters.

“Take it. It’ll do you good,” she said, holding out the glass. Isabella took it. Pearl sat down in an elaborately carved chair at the settee’s right and sipped the golden liquid in her glass. After a moment, Isabella followed suit. The liquid had a taste that was not unpleasant, and it was certainly warming going down. She took another sip, and Pearl nodded approval.

“Better?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Pearl smiled wryly. “You’re a real lady, aren’t you? Always so polite, butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth. I shoulda guessed from the first that Alec would come sniffin’ after you. ’E’s always ’ad a hankerin’ to better ’imself any way ’e could.”

Isabella looked across at Pearl, her eyes widening with guilt. She said nothing, because she could think of nothing to say. Pearl studied her surprised expression for a minute, then smiled wryly.

“Did you think I wouldn’t figure out that somethin’ was goin’ on with you and Alec? With ’im always so protective of you, and callin’ you Isabella in that way ’e ’as? I’ve known Alec since we were kids. I can tell when ’e’s gettin’ a boner in ’is breeches.”

Such plain speaking embarrassed Isabella, but looking at Pearl’s face, she felt her embarrassment die. For all Pearl’s calm statement, there was a look in her eyes that spoke of pain carefully suppressed.

“If you’re hurt, Pearl, I’m terribly sorry. I never meant—”

Pearl laughed, the sound tinged with bitterness. “Don’t apologize, angel. I’m not one to begrudge you your fun. Alec’s been goin’ ’is own way for a long time now, and I don’t mind that ’e ’as other women. ’E’s a real man, ’e is, and likes the ladies, but ’e always comes back to me in the end. I thought you should know that.”

Isabella felt her stomach tighten. Pearl’s voice was oddly gentle, and Isabella did not doubt she told the truth. Indeed, Isabella had known that she was no more than a passing fancy for Alec, a novelty. The idea made her wince.

Pearl’s eyes sharpened. Then she dropped them back to her brandy, which she swirled thoughtfully around the glass. She looked at the pale gold liquid instead of Isabella as she spoke.

“ ’E’ll wed me one day, ’e will, and we’ll ’ave kids just like us. We’re the same breed, Alec and me. Survivors. You’re just somethin’ a little out of the common way for ’im, and as soon as ’e beds you a few times, you’ll be out of ’is system for good. Just like all the rest.”

The image of being bedded by Alec a second time, let alone the few times that Pearl envisioned, panicked Isabella. She would not, could not, sink any lower than she already had. To surrender to temptation once was contemptible; for a married, decent lady such as herself to become a man’s mistress was utterly depraved.

“I have to get away from here,” she said miserably, feeling sick as she too stared down at the brandy in her glass. “Will you help me?”

Pearl smiled, and took a sip of brandy before answering.

“Sure, angel. Sure I will.”

XXV

I
sabella huddled inside the hackney, pulling the hood of the blue velvet cloak Pearl had lent her around her face. Beneath the cloak, she was wearing a relatively proper morning gown of the same color and material. The clothes were much too large, but they were well made and clean and, best of all, warm. The first weeks of March usually saw a warming of the temperature, but this morning was bitterly cold.

Pearl had been all that was kind, ordering a footman to summon a hackney for her, lending her clothes, giving the address of the St. Just townhouse to the driver, even pressing money into her hand to pay the fare.

As the hackney rattled over the cobbled streets toward the fashionable townhouse that she had never so much as seen, Isabella stared out the grimy window and tried not to think.

She was sore afraid that she was making a mistake.

The sun was just peeping over the tallest of the narrow brick buildings, its rays turning the thick wisps of mist that floated over the streets to a dull yellow-gray. Chimney pots spewed plumes of gray smoke into the sky, and fat flakes of soot drifted down like small, gray autumn leaves to settle on everything below. A few hardy individuals were already out and about. Servants mostly, bundled up to their eyebrows against the cold. One plump old woman pushed a battered handcart down the street. Her cries of “Butter and cheese! Butter and cheese! Buy, if you please, my butter and cheese!” echoed off the houses lining the fashionable residential square.

As the hackney pulled to a halt in front of an elegant townhouse, Isabella realized with a growing sense of trepidation that she had arrived at her destination.

The wizened cabby opened the door for her and stood waiting, blowing on his cold hands, his breath making little clouds of smoke in the cold air.

“This be it, miss,” he said, impatience in his voice as he shifted from foot to foot, waiting for her to alight.

Isabella swallowed. What choice had she? It was either go in to her legal husband, or return to the Golden Carousel—and Alec.

She never wanted to see Alec again in her life. And she wouldn’t, once she walked through the townhouse’s lofty portal. Her life would resume as if he had never existed.

But what if Bernard had really tried to have her killed?

Absurd! said the logical part of her brain.

But what if …? The question lingered almost audibly on the air.

Alec had firmly planted the seeds of doubt, ridiculous though they probably were, and all her common sense could not dislodge them.

Perhaps she should go to her father, and lay all before him, and beg him to determine what was true and what was not.

But he would say that a married woman’s place was with her husband, and send her back to Bernard post-haste. She doubted that he would even wait to hear her story out.

Of course, Paddy said that her family thought her dead. Having her turn up very much alive on their doorstep might soften their hearts toward her.

Isabella smiled wryly. More likely her father would scold her for putting him to the unnecessary expense of purchasing mourning clothes. And Bernard would doubtless complain of the same thing.

And everybody would want to know what had happened, and where she had been.

“You gettin’ out, miss, or not?” The cabby was scowling.

Isabella took a deep breath. She had to make a decision, now.

She got out, and stood looking up at the townhouse that towered three stories above her. It really was a most impressive residence.

“That’ll be two bob, miss.”

The cabby was holding out his hand for the fare. She gave him the coins, and scarcely noticed when he climbed back on the box and drove away.

Her attention was all on what she must do.

Walk past the marble whippets that guarded the steps, up the shallow stairs to the white-painted door, then knock.

A butler would doubtless answer. She would tell him who she was, and he would let her in.

The problem would be resolved. She would be back where she belonged, and Alec Tyron and his dire warnings would be behind her, soon to be forgotten.

Taking a deep breath, Isabella picked up the too long skirts of her borrowed cloak and dress, and walked steadily past the whippets and up the stairs.

She stopped on the landing, and reached up to knock—only to stare at the door with some confusion.

The knocker was off the door.

Isabella lacked town bronze, but she knew what that meant. For whatever reason, the house was closed. Bernard was not there.

Feeling almost lighthearted, she knocked anyway. She heard the sound echo through the rooms inside, but no one came to the door. The house was empty. Smiling faintly, she turned away.

Only to stop stock-still in the street, eyes widening, as she realized the position she was in.

She was alone in London with only a coin or two in her pocket and nowhere to go.

What did she do now?

XXVI

H
ours later Isabella had still come up with no satisfactory solution to her dilemma. She had wandered down one labyrinthian street after another until she was hopelessly, totally lost. The streets had grown steadily shabbier, and as the day waned; Isabella realized that she was no longer in the fashionable part of town.

A sign swung in the wind that was just starting to pick up. “The Nag’s Head Coffee House,” it proclaimed. For all the building’s cracked plaster and dingy windows, it was at least a place where she could get in out of the cold, sip a cup of tea and ponder her situation.

Carefully Isabella felt the few coins remaining in her pocket. Surely things were not so expensive in London that she could not have a cup of tea with a bit left over.

The Nag’s Head was nothing more than a back-street pub, Isabella saw as she entered. The interior was dark and gloomy, and an assortment of scruffy-looking characters sat at the crowded tables. First one and then another glanced at her as she passed to an empty table near the window. Isabella was made uncomfortable by the looks she received, and hastily sat, striving to make herself as inconspicuous as possible.

“What’ll it be, me dear?” A stout woman in a gingham dress with an apron that was none too clean appeared at tableside, bearing a tray holding two foaming mugs of ale. As she waited for Isabella’s order, she deftly slid the mugs onto the table behind her, where two sly-looking men talked in whispers.

“Well, ducks?”

“A cup of tea, please,” Isabella said low. She saw nothing strange about her request, but the woman’s eyes opened wider, and moved swiftly over her before coming to rest again on her face.

“A cup o’ tea? If you say so, ducks.”

The woman shrugged, and went to the rear of the establishment, presumably to fetch the tea. Isabella tried to ignore the covert looks of the other customers as she waited, keeping her eyes firmly trained on what she could see of the street through the window. As the glass was covered with a thick layer of grit, this wasn’t too much.

“ ’Ere you go, ducks.” The woman put the tea down in front of her.

“How—how much is it?” Isabella asked, almost afraid to find out. What would happen if she couldn’t afford to pay? To her surprise, the woman shook her head.

“No charge for a cuppa for you, ducks. You look like you’re kinda down on your luck.”

“Why, thank you.”

Isabella stared after the woman as she took herself off toward the rear of the shop again. Kindness was everywhere, it seemed.

She settled down to drink her tea, and consider her options.

As she saw it, she could return to the Golden Carousel. Surely it would not be difficult to get someone to direct her there.

Or she could make her way to the nearest stagecoach house, and try to get back to Norfolk, where she could then decide whether to throw herself on her father’s mercy or go straight to Blakely Park.

It was always possible that Bernard was in Norfolk, either at Blakely Park or at Portland House, her father’s estate. Perhaps his absence was something to do with her supposed death?

She didn’t know. She didn’t even really care. All she knew was that she was tired, hungry and confused, and wanted to be somewhere safe.

As she thought the word “safe,” Alec’s rakishly handsome face flashed before her mind’s eye.

Now, why, she thought wrathfully, should she associate being safe with that blackguard?

Resolutely she banished him from her thoughts, as she had done about a dozen times that day.

Her best bet, she decided after more deliberation, was to go home to Blakely Park. Pressy would be there, and the servants, all of whom were her friends. If Bernard was truly trying to kill her, he would not do it there. And if it was someone else who wanted her dead, he would be confounded—for the time being, at least.