Too Dangerous For a Lady (21 page)

If all had gone to plan, he was here in London. So
tempting to seek him out. He'd warned her not to, but the address on that letter was clear in her mind. Sir George Hawkinville, 32, Peel Street. That was in the West End of London, but only a few miles away.

Sir George. A knight or a baronet at a fashionable address. It was odd, but for all she knew, there could be a gang of gentleman thieves. She'd read scandals of criminals in high places. Whoever Sir George was, she could write to Thayne care of that address in order to tell him she was safe and had arrived in London. She'd treasure such a message from him.

He'd been serious about her not trying to meet him here, however, and she couldn't be sure Sir George was a person to be trusted. She'd only just arrived in London. In a day or two perhaps everything would be clearer. She drank the rest of her tea, concentrating on Edgar.

As soon as they'd begun to plan this journey, she'd glimpsed the vigorous man who'd traveled the world and survived adventures. Even unwell, when they'd entered the noisy bustle of London, he'd sparked again. She touched the kris in her pocket. She didn't expect to have to use it, but it had become a talisman. It would guide her safely to the cure.

She touched the brass button that lay beside the hilt. Thayne
had
arrived in London and he
was
safe. Perhaps believing that would make it so.

T
he next day Hermione found Edgar improved, so she felt able to set off with Nolly to find a bookshop. A nearby one provided an excellent guide to London, and she also purchased two newspapers. Ones printed that very day. What a luxury!

She couldn't help looking for Thayne in each passing man, but she also kept alert for the brute's brother. He'd never seen her, but if she saw him, she'd have a valid excuse to use Sir George Hawkinville's address. Alas, she saw no one with even the slightest resemblance.

When they returned to the inn, she described their little outing to Edgar, who was drinking some spiced ale that the innkeeper had recommended. He seemed to be enjoying it, which was a good sign. He enjoyed her account, too, and later, a spicy stew. She read one of the newspapers aloud as he ate, relating matters of national interest.

In a few minutes he growled, “Duties on rice, naval stores, and pursers. Twaddle. Isn't there anything
interesting
going on?”

“Lunatic asylums?”

“No.”

“Window tax?”

“Rubbish.”

She reminded herself that he still could be in pain and looked ahead. “An elephant is dead in France.”

“What? Why?”

“It doesn't say. It was forty years old.”

“No age for an elephant. Poor thing.”

She skipped over the list of performances at theaters, as he wasn't well enough to attend, and spotted a long piece about American shipping and trade. Edgar seemed interested in that, but eventually he dozed off.

She took the papers with her into the parlor and ate lunch there with Nolly. Afterward, she set to searching the paper for advertisements or items to do with medicine. It would be miraculous to find mention of Dr. Grammaticus, but perhaps there were associations of physicians. She also looked for mention of the Curious Creatures. They might know Grammaticus's whereabouts. There were many nostrums on offer: Ching's Worm Lozenges, Dr. Fothergill's Nervous Drops, Nelson's Mixture for Diseases of the Lungs. Nothing about Dr. Grammaticus's cure for the Black Disease.

As she continued to scan down the column, her eye was caught by Dr. James's powder. It was among a long list of products available from F. Newbery and Sons, who warned the public to be wary of imitation products. Lawrence's Powder. Dr. Steer's Convulsion Oil. What on earth was Cephalic Snuff?

Never mind that—Newbery and Sons sounded just the place to find Dr. Grammaticus's cure. It was located to the east side of St. Paul's, which wasn't far away. She summoned Nolly and they set off to walk the few streets. The tall brick building must be the warehouse, but the public could enter only a small shop. The glass-fronted shelves were full of bottles and boxes and the counter spread with more of the same, some open. They must provide the odd mix of smells. A gray-haired clerk stood eager to assist.

Hermione went straight to the point. “Do you carry Dr. Grammaticus's cure?”

The man blinked. “I don't recall it, ma'am. If you will allow me a moment?”

He went to consult a thick ledger, but Hermione was prepared for the result. He returned to say that they didn't. “I must admit, ma'am, that I've never heard of it. What ailment does it assist? Perhaps we have something else.”

“It's for kala-azar, a tropical disease.” From the look on his face she feared the man would be offering her a cure for insanity, so she came up with an explanation. “A friend living in India has written to ask me to procure Dr. Grammaticus's cure for her. Can you suggest where I might find it?”

His nose went up. “If Newbery's doesn't carry it, ma'am, I doubt any other establishment will.”

Hermione was very tempted to wield her title, which would bring down those hairy nostrils. Instead she spoke mildly. “Pray, sir, do you know an association called the Curious Creatures?”

She expected another flat denial, but the man responded with a smirk. “Is
that
where you heard of the so-called cure, ma'am? Just the sort to rattle on about nonsense.”

Irritation building, Hermione said, “You may be correct, but where will I find out more about them?”

“You will be better advised to avoid them, ma'am.” Under her stare, he wilted. “I believe they meet at the Green Man in New Bond Street.”

“Thank you.”

As Hermione left, he called after her, “There'll be nothing to anything coming from there, ma'am—you mark my words!”

“Infuriating man!” Hermione exploded once they were outside again.

“They do sound an odd lot, milady.”

“Don't be impertinent!” Hermione immediately apologized. “Please, continue to question my actions, Nolly. I truly don't know what I'm doing.”

“You're doing fine, milady. You've learned a lot in one day.”

Hermione smiled. “I have, haven't I? And New Bond
Street is in the fashionable part of Town. We'll need a hackney to go there, but I'm familiar with the area. We'll go there now.”

“Are you sure, milady?”

Nolly's nervous question made her hesitate. She'd never taken a hackney carriage without a gentleman as escort. But if she stuck to that, she'd go nowhere. “A hackney is perfectly safe,” she said, “and New Bond Street is a safe part of Town.”

It took some time to cover the distance, but the journey took them through interesting older parts of London, and then into Mayfair. Nolly was agog, particularly at the way streets of buildings went on and on and on in all directions.

When they climbed down, Hermione paid the fare but looked dubiously at the Green Man. It seemed little more than a tavern, but the area was as respectable as she'd thought. Just up the street she saw the Blenheim Hotel, which she and Polly had visited once with their mother to take tea with an old friend.

Surely it was safe, but there was one hazard she'd not foreseen. It was gone midday and the tonnish sort were out and about. She might encounter someone she knew and she wasn't dressed for fashionable society. They'd think the Poor Merryhews had fallen into even deeper poverty. She hurried inside the low-ceilinged building.

The small entrance hall reminded her a little of the Lamb in Warrington, but it wasn't used as a taproom and the prevailing smell was of tasty food. Through a door she glimpsed a common dining room with long tables, but some of the diners were well-dressed gentlemen. Respectable, then, but she saw no women.

A sturdy man came forward in polite curiosity. He was neatly dressed in a dark suit, so she assumed he was the innkeeper.

“I've come to enquire about a group called the Curious
Creatures,” she said, in as tonnish a manner as she could. Alas that her clothing didn't suit.

“The Curious Creatures?” he echoed, oddly guarded.

Heavens. It had never occurred to her that it might be some sort of secret organization. She was here now, though, so she'd plow on. “I was told they meet here, sir, and I wish to speak to someone from that group. It is a matter of some importance.”

“Um, well, they have met here, yes, ma'am, but there's no one here right now.”

“I didn't suppose there was,” she said, letting her irritation show. “You must know the address of someone.”

“Well, as to that . . . Tell you what, ma'am, why don't you write a letter about your business and I'll see if I can think where to send it.”

Hermione gave him her haughtiest stare, but it didn't move him, so she sat at the table he indicated and drew off her gloves as she waited for pen and paper.

“'Appen he don't want you to know, milady,” Nolly whispered.

Hermione echoed the Northern term. “'Appen. But they do meet here and I will make contact.”

When the materials came, she wrote her note, keeping her request vague. After a moment's hesitation she signed it with her title, Lady Hermione Merryhew. If the innkeeper opened it to see what it said, that might give him pause. If he sent it on, it might spur the recipient to a rapid response. She sealed it with a wafer and gave it to the innkeeper. “Thank you. If I don't receive a reply in the next day, I will return.”

“I may not be able to get it to anyone in that time, ma'am! Not everyone's in Town.”

Hermione had to accept the justice of that. She could only say, “I'm sure you'll do your best,” and hope it was true.

They left the inn and she looked around for a hackney to take them back to the Cross Keys. None was passing, so
they'd have to find a hackney stand. She thought there was one at Oxford Street that she and her mother had used. She was still uncomfortable in the fashionable throng and would have gone there briskly, but Nolly paused to stare in wonder at a window full of fruit of all varieties.

Well, why not? The beau monde would assume she and Polly were poorer now their father was dead, whether she dressed in silk or fustian, and they'd be correct. So she ambled along at Nolly's pace, enjoying all the shop windows and introducing the maid to the pleasure of imaginary purchases.

*   *   *

Over three days as the dandified Lord Faringay, Mark had joined in the hunt for Solange without success. Though he resented the waste of time, he'd also had to take his place in the beau monde and even attend a couple of manly evenings with Braydon, where old friends had teased him about his transformation. None, however, had seemed to doubt his Mauritius story.

When not wasting time on such matters, he'd sought new ways to find Solange. At his suggestion, the notice in the papers about Nathan's body had been made into posters that were nailed up all around London in hope Seth Boothroyd would see one. He was barely literate, but someone might catch the resemblance to Seth and report that. The posters urged people to go to Bow Street with information, and to claim their reward. Still nothing, and every day increased the danger.

They'd failed to find Solange's contact in the Home Office. The enquiries had been discreet but thorough, but they'd uncovered no suspicious person, and certainly no one with a taste for black, red, and green in even the most subtle form. Hawkinville had been inclined to dismiss the
idea, but Mark had looked at it from all angles and decided they were looking for an innocent gossip.

“A flapping tongue,” he'd said. “It has to be. A man in that department gossips with someone who reports back to Solange.”

“A woman.”

“Yes, of course, and the man himself will be innocent of anything but gossiping about his work with a beguiling lady.”

“But guilty as hell anyway,” Hawkinville said. “If the connection's illicit, he'll not easily admit it, but people in the department will know who fits the mold and we can apply force if necessary. What female friends does Solange Waite have?”

That question stumped Mark. “I'd have said none, but it's clear she's been playing a deep game. I blame myself for not realizing that sooner. I remember a few times when she paid attention to some of the wives of ardent Brotherhood members, but I saw that as her playing the good wife to Waite. Now I believe she'd watch him drown without raising a finger unless it suited her needs.”

Hawkinville had demanded names and Mark had supplied them, but he hadn't believed that the wives who came to mind could be complicit in explosions. However, Solange might have detected a few women who thought as she did. In this case, it would need only one.

He wasn't surprised that the enquiries thus far had achieved nothing, but the need to play the returned Viscount Faringay was an irritating waste of time. He had to do the minimum, however, and today he was traveling by hackney to the City to visit his bank. He could have summoned his banker to Braydon's rooms, but the journey gave another chance to watch for a glimpse of his targets and to assess the mood of the people sporting black, red, and green.

As always, London was raucous and chaotic, but the
mood was no more fractious than usual. When he saw people sporting the colors, he wondered whether they'd seen Tregoven's picture and were ready to stab or shoot Ned Granger on sight. When he stepped out of the carriage, a nearby shopkeeper wore the colors, but paid no attention to him other than to hope for a customer.

At his bank he found he was more comfortably off than he expected or deserved, for he'd not paid close attention to the people chosen to oversee his property and investments. As he left, he decided they should have a bonus, perhaps at Christmas. A fleeting image of a jolly Christmas at Faringay evaporated in face of reality. The place held too many dark memories. A letter would do. . . .

He was pulled out of his thoughts when a man said, “Thayne? Gads, man, you're buffed to a fine polish.”

It was Hal Beaumont, an excellent fellow who'd lost an arm in the war.

“Comes with being Viscount Faringay now,” Mark said, shaking hands. At least it had been Beaumont's left arm.

“Surprised even that led to a green coat.”

“Passed through Paris on the way home and thought I'd try dandy ways for a while.”

Beaumont laughed. “Rather you than me. Are you fixed in Town now? Be pleased to have you round to dine, but it can only be certain nights. Mrs. Beaumont's engaged in the theater four nights a week at the moment.”

A deft way of revealing that he'd married an actress. The world was full of surprises.

“I'd be pleased to,” Mark said, “though I'm heavily engaged in gathering up the pieces. Went from the army to some business in Mauritius. I'm staying with Beau Braydon at the moment. Twenty-three, Parsifal Street.”

They exchanged cards and went their ways. Mark had grown used to such encounters, but at the moment the fashionable world was like a cheery gathering seen through a window, while he stood out in the cold because he was
aware of the darkness threatening them all. Having fought in the war, having been maimed in the war, wouldn't save Beaumont and his wife from being seen as enemies by people like Solange.