Chapter Seventeen
The carriage ride to Aunt Ada’s the next morning was silent, and Margaret avoided looking out of any of the windows, for fear of seeing Rafe.
Her sleep last night had been blessedly dreamless, but it had also been highly unsatisfying. She woke with as much fatigue as she had gone to sleep with, and her heart was heavier than before.
Miss Ritson had allowed one of the maids to come help Margaret with her hair and dress, as Aunt Ada was considered high Society, and it would not do to offend her sensibilities by being underdressed.
To be perfectly honest, Margaret was rather looking forward to Aunt Ada. She was harsh to Margaret, but at least she was honest, and she was familiar. This was something upon which she could rely, and she could nearly predict the weather by Aunt Ada’s behavior. This, at least, would not change.
“Now behave yourself, Miss Easton,” Miss Ritson said, as if Margaret were all of eight years old. “And not a word of your recklessness to your aunt.”
“Yes, Miss Ritson,” Margaret said automatically, wondering what would happen if she did not respond at all.
They were shown into the drawing room, which somehow seemed to have gained more lace since the last time she was here, and waited for Aunt Ada to appear.
She heard her before she saw her.
“Good gracious, why do I let myself be talked into these things? What sort of generous soul willingly takes tea with her ungrateful relations?”
“I am sure I do not know, Ada,” chimed another voice that rang with sympathy. This voice was familiar, but Margaret could not identify it.
Miss Ritson frowned. “I did not know your aunt would be having company.” Disapproval was etched on her face, but Margaret was almost beside herself with glee.
Someone else who would have to see this ridiculous spectacle? It was more than she could have hoped for.
She fixed a properly demure expression on her face and straightened up in her olive-colored monstrosity of a dress.
Aunt Ada entered the room first, looking as though someone had tried to dress her for the grave but had grown tired of the exercise. Lace flowed over and around her as if sprung from a fountain within her, and her frilled cap was slightly askew. The lace had no doubt been white at one point, but now was a cream with yellowed edges, rather like Aunt Ada herself, and the whole thing looked rather like Margaret’s morning porridge had.
“Ridiculous business,” Aunt Ada muttered. She glanced behind her out into the hall. “Don’t dawdle, Tibby, this is interminable as it is.”
Margaret gaped as Lady Raeburn followed her aunt into the room, shocking in her ensemble of pink and black, which so differed from Aunt Ada’s blandness. Lady Raeburn was always one for making a statement, and this was no different. The fabric shimmered and tightened about her pristine figure as she glided, and it was impossible to look anywhere else.
Belatedly, Margaret remembered to rise and curtsey, and felt a brief stab of satisfaction that Miss Ritson had forgotten as well.
Aunt Ada tsked as she looked over Margaret. “That is a horrible color for you, Margaret. Who is dressing you these days?”
Margaret choked a little, biting back a laugh. “I am sure I do not know, Aunt,” she replied perfectly, knowing better than to besmirch Miss Ritson.
Aunt Ada shook her head. “Tell me at least that you did not choose it yourself.”
“I did not.”
“Hmm.” She sat and offered up her cheek, which Margaret dutifully kissed. “I presume you know Lady Raeburn?”
Margaret nodded and turned to the vibrant woman. “I do. A pleasure to see you again, my lady.”
Lady Raeburn inclined her head and sat, her emerald eyes clashing with her red hair in a surprisingly charming way. “Yes, it is always a pleasure to see me, Miss Easton. But I am delighted to see you as well, though I fear you are looking a bit thin. Are you well?”
Margaret heard Miss Ritson faintly clear her throat, and turned. “I am quite well, my lady, thank you. May I introduce my companion, Miss Ritson?”
Lady Raeburn looked at Miss Ritson with an upraised brow. “If you must, I suppose. Is she companion or chaperone?” She glanced up at Margaret with a daring tilt to her chin.
“Both, I imagine,” Margaret admitted, smiling.
“I have been charged with aiding Miss Easton this Season,” Miss Ritson said in her most polite voice.
“In her husband hunt?” Lady Raeburn asked bluntly, as she poured tea for them. “One lump or two, Ada?”
“Two,” Aunt Ada grunted, sitting back.
Miss Ritson looked perplexed by the question. “If you mean in her desire to make a good match, then yes, I am aiding her in that, but also in her navigation of society.”
“Can’t have done a very good job of that,” Aunt Ada replied as she took her tea. “The girl is still as much of a spinster as she was before.”
“And I’ve always thought Miss Easton navigated society quite well,” Lady Raeburn mused, handing tea to Margaret. “She is sensible and lively, has excellent manners, and she dances with grace and spirit.”
“Thank you, my lady.” Margaret beamed at her before sipping her tea.
“Miss Easton, be demure,” Miss Ritson snapped.
Aunt Ada cleared her throat. “I thought that was demure, Ritson. She didn’t misstep. I’m inclined to believe that monstrosity she is wearing is of your choosing, the way you order her about.”
Margaret took another quick sip of tea to avoid laughing at Miss Ritson’s expression.
“I advise Miss Easton on many things,” Miss Ritson replied as calmly as she could manage, her voice shaking a touch.
“Of course, you do,” Lady Raeburn soothed, “and it does you credit. This dress, however…” She sighed and shook her head. “I have so many gowns that would suit her better. I wonder if I might have them sent over? They will only require a bit of alteration, nothing extravagant.”
Miss Ritson stared at Lady Raeburn in horror. “Oh, I don’t think…”
“Yes, that is obvious,” Aunt Ada interrupted, “but that doesn’t mean you cannot start now. Take the dresses, Ritson, Margaret needs to look appealing if she is to land a husband.”
Caught between two powerful women, Miss Ritson had no choice but to nod and allow it.
“Margaret, eat a tart,” Aunt Ada ordered when Margaret let the plate pass her.
“Miss Easton is watching her figure, Mrs. Campbell,” Miss Ritson informed her with a prim sniff as she took a tart herself.
Aunt Ada snorted loudly. “Yes, so am I. Watching it fade away. No man wants a waif for a wife, Margaret. Eat a tart.”
Chastened yet again, Miss Ritson handed the plate of tarts back to Margaret, fuming.
Margaret somehow managed to remain composed as she took one, then gave her aunt a look. “I thought you wanted me to be thinner, Aunt.”
Aunt Ada gave her a very serious and almost warm look. “I wanted you to have a figure, Margaret, not to become one. Eat two tarts or I will cut you off.”
“Yes, Aunt,” she dutifully replied, taking two tarts and earning herself a wink from Lady Raeburn.
Thankfully, Miss Ritson had a reprieve from being attacked as Lady Raeburn and Aunt Ada spoke of the gossip surrounding ladies of their generation, though Margaret was quite sure Lady Raeburn was twenty years younger than Aunt Ada, and Margaret was able to focus on her tarts. She made sure to take small bites, and sip her tea carefully, so that Miss Ritson would have nothing at all to find fault in. She was watching Margaret very closely, no doubt cataloguing her faults for a later berating.
They went on about it for so long that Margaret had quite lost track of the conversation, and would have upended her teacup, had there been anything in it, when Lady Raeburn asked, “What say you, Miss Easton?”
Margaret managed to not look too startled, despite her suddenly racing heart. “About what, my lady?”
Lady Raeburn smiled a little. “I knew you were not marking me, but Ada thought you were. I insist upon having you attend an evening at my home on Wednesday. My niece and her husband are to attend, as are Lord and Lady Blackmoor, and I believe your charming cousin Miss Dalton as well.”
Margaret thought back on family connections, and if the Blackmoors and the Gerrards were attending, it was a fair bet that the Grangers would attend, which would mean that Rosalind would be there as well.
A chance to be with Rosalind and Helen in a setting that Miss Ritson could not control? It was too good to be true.
She had to play this carefully. She turned cautiously to Miss Ritson, fixing her expression into one of polite deference. “Miss Ritson, do I have your permission to attend the evening at Lady Raeburn’s?”
Miss Ritson looked suspicious, and obviously did not want her to go, but she could not refuse a kind invitation from a lady of such standing, and she did so love Helen. “Of course, Miss Easton, it would be a lovely evening for you, and with such guests? You must attend!”
Margaret looked back at Lady Raeburn with a smile. “Then I shall attend, my lady.”
Lady Raeburn looked between her and Miss Ritson with a frown. “I was not aware that a woman of twenty-two must ask permission before attending a simple evening, but that is neither here nor there. You are to come, and I will be sure to invite several eligible gentlemen that will meet the requirements we have discussed previously.”
Margaret choked a laugh that she turned into a cough, and pointedly ignored Miss Ritson’s curious look.
“And for pity’s sake, Ritson,” Aunt Ada chimed in, sounding disgusted, “let Margaret pick her own dress. Your selection is atrocious. In fact, have Tibby send the dress. Anything is better than that.”
They left shortly after that, with Lady Raeburn taking a private moment with Margaret to whisper that her “dear friend Mrs. Dalton” would be delighted to know that she had seen her today, which made Margaret want to hug the woman. Her aunt would be told of the situation, and perhaps Lady Raeburn would be an ally for her.
Aunt Ada squeezed Margaret’s hands as they left, and winked, which was the most bizarre thing she had ever seen, but then, she was fairly certain she had imagined this entire day. Aunt Ada actually liked Margaret? That was a bewildering thought. But if her great aunt was friends with Lady Raeburn, there was hope for the old crone after all.
Margaret smiled to herself as she and Miss Ritson made their way out to the carriage, and something made Margaret pause.
She turned to look down the street, wondering…
A familiar figure leaned against a building nearby, dark eyes intent on her.
She ought to look away. She ought to sniff and turn back. She ought to frown or glare or something to show him she was still angry and he was not forgiven.
But she didn’t.
She stared back, breathlessly counting in her mind.
At five he straightened up. At seven he tilted his head. At nine his lips quirked.
And at ten…
She smiled.
Then Miss Ritson barked at her, and she loaded herself into the carriage, and when they drove passed, she looked out of the window.
But he was gone.
That smile…
He could have taken on the entire French army and Napoleon himself for the promise of that smile.
What amused him, and made him wildly curious, was the fact that she had exited her aunt’s home with a smile, which had never happened in all the time he had known her. The fact that she had smiled more broadly at him, particularly after their last exchange, was beyond encouraging.
But he would not presume anything. Not yet.
He didn’t mean to follow her, not this time. He’d actually been minding his own business when he’d realized the day and his proximity to her aunt’s, and wondered if Miss Ritson might have kept Margaret’s schedule the same on certain things, and he was right.
Seeing Margaret smile again was a breath of fresh air.
He’d spoken with Tilda as well as with Rook and he now had a fairly good idea of what had happened yesterday, and he shouldn’t have been surprised that Margaret would hear a version of his story and reputation tinged by the women of the streets. Truth be told, he rarely spent any time with them, and certainly never in the regard that they were prone to suggest. At least three of the women had been Tilda’s girls, who were slightly more reputable than the average woman one might see there, but they were actresses, and sometimes even Rafe forgot their true profession.
But they made valuable contacts and never missed details.
Aggie had been invaluable this morning, once Tilda had brought her over to see him. Rose had added in some fine details as well, and the two of them led Rafe to believe that Margaret’s outburst was one borne of embarrassment and shock rather than her own true emotions.
He thanked them for their insight, but doubted it was that simple.
There was some truth to Margaret’s words. He had left her there alone, and he’d had his reasons. And Cap and Rogue would have shot him before letting him do what he wanted to, but he couldn’t explain any of that. There would never be an explanation for why he’d had to leave her there. He did have a healthy sense of self-preservation, but not in the way she thought. He had to preserve himself in some regards because it was highly dangerous for him to do otherwise.
There were other women in his life. Dozens of them. Hundreds, if he were to count every single incident, and some of them were now in very significant positions in London’s society. Some were at the very lowest, and some, he was sad to admit, were now dead. But they weren’t romantic attachments, none of them. He hadn’t actually thought he was capable of romantic attachments before Margaret. He’d always just done his duty and looked out for those he could help. Then she had crossed his path, and his entire world had changed.
There were a lot of women that he had helped.
But there were also a number of children.
And plenty of men.
There were people who did not even know he had helped them, some of whom were at very high levels.
But Margaret couldn’t know any of that.
All she knew was that there was more to him than she knew, and it probably terrified her.
He had to prove to her that there was only her. But he failed to see how he could accomplish that while things stood as they were.
Her smile was the promise of what was to come, and he would keep that in his mind.
And now that he had seen her well and whole, he had business to attend to.
He slid his hands into his pockets and whistled as he walked the streets, turning a corner and seeing two of his children standing there. He tilted his head and headed in their direction.
“Sarah, Arthur, what brings you out here?” he asked, leaning against the wall beside them.
Arthur shrugged and thumbed his nose. “Me mark’s inside, Gent. I tried the kitchens, but the cook walloped me somefink fierce.”
Rafe tsked and looked the boy over. “Are you all right?”
Arthur gave him a withering look. “She ain’t me mam, Gent. I can take worse, and ‘ave done.”
Rafe smiled at him and nodded, knowing it was true, and also knowing that Arthur would be mortally offended if he suggested he was not strong enough to receive some cook’s punishment.
He looked down at the dark-haired girl tapping her shoe. “Sarah, your turn.”
Sarah looked up at him with a strange look. “Mine’s inside, too, Gent.”
He looked between them both, his thoughts spinning fast. Their marks should not be connected at all. One was on Rafe’s traitor list, but a fairly mild character, and the other was simply an unpleasant fellow with some less than savory ties, and…
Rafe nearly slapped his forehead. Why wouldn’t they be connected? But if it was getting to be more of a problem, he needed more stealth and could not let the children be so involved.
He glanced back down at them, thinking fast. “Sarah, see if the cook will let you inside. She might be more sympathetic to girls. Can you cry?”
Immediately the girl’s big brown eyes welled up and Rafe grinned. “Perfect. Go and see what you can do. Ears open.”
Sarah nodded and dashed around the back of the building.
Rafe turned to Arthur, who thumbed his cap back a little. “Arthur, run down the lane and give the signal. See if Kip comes around, and have him take over. If he doesn’t, any of the others will do. Then you mark the movements of yours and report to him, all right?”
Arthur saluted and dashed off.
Rafe exhaled, his heart pounding. Between Castleton’s odd maneuvering in darker sides of London and the suspicious meetings of others, something was in the works, and the familiar excitement of his profession stirred within him. The thrill of the chase never got old.
He waited across the street unobtrusively until Kip and Arthur returned, exchanged nods, and then Rafe went on, heading towards finer parts of London than he usually visited as the Gent, but he had an appointment with Rook and his brother, and it had to be done with the utmost caution.
Sphinx had his own intelligence on the situation, and rarely reported in person, but this was a special situation with far too many players.
So they had chosen a fairly neutral and safe location for them all to meet.
Rafe’s home.
Usually, this was a very frowned upon idea, but Rook had insisted that he and his brother could absolutely call upon Lord Marlowe, as they had all gone to Eton, and had even offered to schedule a duel for later, if he was so inclined.
He might have taken him up on it, if he thought they wouldn’t be hanged by the Shopkeepers for making a spectacle of themselves unnecessarily.
Rook didn’t know how good Rafe was with weaponry.
Then again, he didn’t know how good Rook was, either.
He shook his head as he went in the back servant’s entrance of his house, as per usual when he was dressed like this. The narrow, pokey hall opened up to the servants’ stair, and Rafe glanced up as something creaked above him.
“My lord,” greeted Rogers, his ginger-haired valet, who looked over his ensemble with a wrinkled up nose as he descended.
Rafe grinned and inclined his head. “Rogers.”
“Have we been scuttling coal this morning, my lord?” Rogers asked, his voice slightly nasal as if he were holding his breath.
“No, just the usual.” He shrugged and brushed at his sleeves. “Perhaps a little more than the usual, but no coal. You wouldn’t believe how filthy one can get in my profession.”
As he expected, Rogers stiffened and shook his head.
“I don’t know,” Rogers muttered, walking away. “I don’t know, and I don’t want to know.”
Rafe followed into the main of the house, grinning like a fool. “You sure, Rogers? I trust you, I could tell you.”
His valet completely ignored him. “I could have worked for the Lord Mayor,” he muttered. “I could have gone into theater. Mother always said my talents were wasted on the mundane.”
Rafe bit back a laugh and turned the opposite way from his dramatic valet, grateful he had so few servants, but such entertaining ones. It made coming home such a pleasure, when he was able to.
“Sir, you have guests in the library.”
Rafe turned to see his long-faced butler, who was neither surprised at his ensemble nor ruffled by his sudden appearance. Davis was used to his comings and goings, and had learned to never expect anything of him.
“Excellent, Davis,” Rafe answered with a clipped nod. He took two steps, then glanced over at the greying man. “Remind me where the library is.”
Davis exhaled noisily, which made Rafe smile with sympathy. Poor Davis, it was such a trial working for him.
“I know where it is, Davis,” he assured him, wondering if he would respond well to a patting on the shoulder. “I was only having a laugh.”
His butler’s expression never changed. “Very amusing, my lord.”
Rafe shook his head to himself, and started towards the library.
“My lord?”
He turned back with a raised brow.
Davis kept his gaze firmly over Rafe’s left shoulder. “Your ensemble, sir. Perhaps you should change.”
Rafe looked down at himself, then back up at his butler, hands on his hips. “Are you trying to replace Rogers?”
Davis seemed to shudder. “No, my lord.”
Rafe hummed a little in thought, then shook his head. “No, I’ll go in as I am. This won’t take long.”
He turned for the library, wondering just what Davis was muttering to himself, and grinned as he pushed open the library door.
Rook looked like his usual peacock self in a sapphire waistcoat and silvery coat, his hair perfection, his face clean-shaven. The other man in the room was an older, darker, more reserved version of him. Their eyes were the same shade of green, and he could see the similar features, but they could not have been more different. The brother wore grey as well, but a very subdued version, far more typical of the men of London, and he looked as though life had not been kind to him.
If Rafe didn’t know better, he would say that this older brother was a dullard and more inclined to sleep than think. But that was the genius of Sphinx. He was brilliant, and not a soul would suspect it.
Both men rose and bowed in unison, and Rafe reciprocated. “Thank you for coming,” he said simply, gesturing for them to be seated and then taking a seat as well.
Rook nodded, then gestured at his brother. “You know Sphinx?”
“Only by reputation,” Rafe replied, inclining his head respectfully. “A privilege, sir.”
Sphinx waved his hand dismissively. “Not a sir,” he told him in a surprisingly deep voice. “And you know full well you two have the more dangerous tasks.”
Rafe smiled, looking at Rook, who was regarding his brother with a sort of amused irritation. Rook was a dandy, but he was a damned fine operative, and it was obvious he and his brother were close, despite their differences in personality and skills.
“That may be,” Rafe allowed, crossing his ankles, “but only in the physical sense. Now, am I to understand you have some information I need?”
Sphinx nodded slowly. “I do. But first, I believe Rook has an idea to tell you, which will make what I am to tell you more interesting.”
Rafe turned to his colleague expectantly. “Do I want to know?”
Rook smiled a little. “Your Castleton is a slimy fellow, which you will soon know more about, but based on Sphinx’s information, you will want an operative within his home.”
Rafe sat back heavily. “We don’t have anyone available. I’ve asked Cap and Eagle. And Milliner. There is no one.”
“There is no one trained,” Rook corrected, smiling a little. “Which is easy enough to fix, given she won’t need much.”
Rafe stared at Rook for a long moment, putting the pieces together. “You have someone in mind.”
Rook nodded once. “I do. Well, Weaver did, anyway. Come!” he called.
The door to the library opened and in strode Tilda, looking too pleased with herself, Hal, looking suspicious, and oddly enough, Callie, the one maid he employed here.
The men rose as they entered, which made Hal snort and roll her eyes, and Callie looked bewildered by it.
“What’s all this?” Rafe asked, though he suspected he knew already.
Rook didn’t say anything, and Sphinx was staring at Hal with a little too much interest. Not that Hal noticed, she was already sitting down and sketching away, spectacles perched on her head.
Tilda sat next to Rook, draping herself on him, and waved Callie into a seat. “Sit down, love, you’ll need to hear this.”
“Hear what?” Rafe asked of anyone.
Rook cleared his throat, and Hal looked up at Rafe. “Sir Vincent likes blondes.”
Rafe glanced at Callie, who, it seemed, had already been briefed on this, and then back at Hal. “So you want to send Callie to work for him in the hopes he bites?”
Rook chortled and Tilda tittered, while Sphinx just shook his head. “He won’t do anything, and Callie can handle herself, I presume.”
“How’s that? You just met her,” Hal retorted, obviously not in favor of the plan.
Sphinx looked at her with one imperious brow raised. “She works for Gent.”
That made the whole room laugh, even Callie.
“I can handle it, my lord,” Callie told him, her diction as perfect as a London miss. “He’ll be wanting a new maid, and I can manage myself. He’s interested in your lady for her money, but it’ll be me he chases. I can get close without raising suspicions and hear everything that goes on in the house.”
Rafe smiled at his spunky maid, wondering who had tapped her for this. “You have been fully briefed, haven’t you, Callie?”
She smiled back, ducking her chin. “I’m an old friend of Trick, my lord. I got this post on purpose.”
Rafe looked at Hal in surprise, but his friend gave nothing away. Not many people in the world knew about Trick, let alone that Hal was his sister. But if that was Callie’s connection, this could all work out quite brilliantly.
He began to slowly nod and turned back to Sphinx. “What is the mission, then?”