A Rogue of One's Own

His mouth quirked ruefully.

He turned.

She lay on her side, a small heap in the vast bed, one hand tucked beneath her cheek.

“No,” he said. “Just Tristan.”

Her eyes were tired. Her hair snaked over her shoulder in an untidy coil, more gray than brunette, he noted with unpleasant surprise.

She moved not a muscle as he approached, nor when he took a seat in the visitor’s chair.

An acrid medicinal smell accosted his nose.

Her nightstand was cluttered with the numerous bottles of poison they fed her. There was a tray with a bowl of soup and a slice of bread, looking dried up and untouched.

“Good afternoon, Mother.”

“My beautiful boy,” she said softly, her eyes searching his face.

He reached for her hand. The feel of her bony fingers sent a shudder down his back.

She appeared not to notice. “Why have you not come to see me sooner?”

“I have not been back for long.”

“Liar,” she said without heat. “Carey told me you returned before Christmas.”

“A faithful little spy, your lady’s maid.” It failed to draw a smile. When she was in this state, it was akin to talking into a void. Even her face changed in subtle ways. Her body was here; she was not. It would make the most jaded man believe in the human spirit, because its absence was plainly visible.

“Why are you not eating?” he said. “Should I have words with Cook?”

No reply.

His muscles were tense; his body demanded he walk away from this fragility. Her lady’s maid had kept it from him in her letters, how bad it was. Or perhaps he had refused to read between the lines.

He eyed the bottles on the nightstand more closely. Laudanum, naturally, and some other tinctures, likely snake oil. They used it on her when she had the morbs, and tried to use it on her when she became the overly bright, frantic version of herself who ordered thirty new dresses at once or tried to sail to Morocco on her own. When he was a boy, either version of her had unsettled him. Being around her and Rochester during those times had felt precarious, like shoveling water from a sinking barge with a spoon.

“Mother, did I tell you, in Delhi, I was a guest of General Foster,” he said. “He keeps a pet elephant in his garden.”

His mother’s brows pulled together. “How curious—a whole elephant?”

“The whole thing. A small one, however, still a youngster. One day, he had figured out how to stick his trunk through the kitchen window and very prettily beg for food. You would like him.”

How would she fare, in India, under General Foster’s roof? She looked brittle, as though a mere carriage ride would shatter her. He wondered whether she was still a friend to Lucie’s mother, for the women had sometimes spent some leisure time together in one of Wycliffe’s smaller country homes. Friendly company might do her good. However, even if the women still shared a connection, Rochester would hardly allow his wife to convalesce away from Ashdown, since she was now his bargaining tool . . .

“An elephant,” she said, still puzzled. “How does he keep it from trampling the roses?”

“The general has his eccentricities, but he makes for good conversation,” he replied. “He fancies himself vastly knowledgeable on the gods of Hinduism and lectures for hours on the topic.”

Her frown lines deepened. “Do you think it wise to mingle with aspiring heathens, dear, and the lecturing kind, too?”

“Right,” he said lamely. “Well, I’m here now.”

A glimpse of her shimmered at the bottom of her blue eyes. “Will you stay?” she whispered.

He wanted to run.

“Only if you eat,” he said. He pulled the bell string over her nightstand and backed away, deciding to take his leave altogether. He had his information; she was obviously unfit for travel, and not particularly intrigued by Foster. He’d return some other time, when his plans had progressed. Any spoon-feeding of broth, the maid could do; he wasn’t a bloody saint, after all. As it was, tonight he had a tête-à-tête with a man they called Beelzebub.

* * *

Night had fallen when he arrived in London, but this corner of the city was always steeped in darkness regardless of the time of the day. The address was most elegant, and presently well-lit by tall streetlights, but the polished white façades and pillared entrances hid back rooms and basements where powerful men assembled to revel in their vices. And where power was limitless, so was the vice.

Years ago, this had been his routine—letting a door knocker fall in a certain pattern, presenting passwords to hulking gatekeepers, descending narrow staircases. In the very heart of London, he had passed through Sodom and Gomorrah. Had it not been for the poets and their lines about all that was noble and true, the murkiness might well have taken permanent root in him. People recognized him even now, their eyes lighting on him from the shadows as he crossed the darkened antechamber of the town house.

He could smell that Blackstone was here before he entered the last card room. It was the distinct absence of fresh cigarette smoke, which normally masked the stink of old carpets that had been soaked in various fluids over the course of decades. No one was allowed to smoke in the investor’s presence. Speculations abounded over the reasons, with half the people suspecting Blackstone had an unseemly concern for the condition of his teeth and lungs, and the other half insisting he just took pleasure in controlling the men around him. Tristan knew him long enough to be certain that both were the case.

Blackstone was sprawled in an armchair, facing the door with his back to the wall. His harsh features, made harsher by a once-broken nose, gave no indication he had taken notice of Tristan entering. He was not paying attention to anyone in particular, and his cards hung loosely from a careless pale hand. The other men in the circle who dared to gamble with him might as well not have been there at all. In looks and mien, Blackstone more resembled the underworld lords who ruled the docklands than his actual class of legitimate businessmen.

Tristan passed the group without slowing, but the small nod he gave indicated he wanted a word, and Blackstone’s dark lashes lowered a fraction in acknowledgment. This was promising, for while they might still follow each other’s moves privately, they had not purposefully crossed paths in a few years’ time.

He sought out an empty side chamber and made himself comfortable in a creaking leather wing chair. Blackstone could take ten minutes, or hours. A patently tedious game, sitting and waiting and breathing the fetid air. In the past, it hadn’t bothered him. He had been keen, then, eighteen years of age and greedy for the hunt. He had just become aware that not only women, but some men, too, were drawn to his face, and the entire demimonde had been enchanted by the newness and youth of him. They had pulled him into the dimly-lit, sweltering, and sleepless underworld of gambling and debauchery, and it had been quite easy, pulling them in in return, securing their trust when they were drunk on Scotch and pleasure or stupidly tight on ether. Incriminating secrets were easily extracted during those hours, and he had made others gamble deep, all while he was still stone sober beneath an exuberant veneer of intoxication. Soon he had had a ledger with a carefully calibrated mix of legitimately owed debts and favors as well as secrets he could occasionally turn into coin by way of extortion. His personal, portable bank account, his last trump card.

It was how he and Blackstone had met: attempting to pluck the same pigeon one glittering night. Their strengths had been too well matched to be pitted against each other effectively, and after some juvenile posturing, they had joined forces for their covert robberies. The brute and the snake. One had provided enforcement, the other access to exclusive circles. It had worked well for a few years. It had worked better for Blackstone, financially speaking—he was now one of the wealthiest businessmen in London. Then again, the man hadn’t been yanked from his early moneymaking activities by an overbearing father. Blackstone, Tristan assumed, did not have a father to call his own.

A shadow fell across the floor. Speak of the devil: the financier’s brawny build was darkening the door frame. Hard eyes the color of slate locked with his.

“I have business to discuss,” Tristan said.

Blackstone contemplated, then nodded, turned, and left. They both knew the chambers here had strategically placed holes in the plaster to accommodate the ears and eyes of third parties. They knew from their days on the other side of the wall.

They were headed toward the east exit where the coaches waited. Blackstone motioned for Tristan to climb aboard his unmarked carriage. The vehicle jerked into motion a moment later, and unless discussed otherwise, it would take them a few streets down to Belgravia, which allowed for enough time to talk business if one was succinct; then Tristan would alight and Blackstone would vanish, presumably to one of his various properties whose locations he liked to keep undisclosed. He did have one well-known town house, in Chelsea, filled entirely with his collection of art and antiques, and Blackstone knew the price of each of these objects and the value of none. The investor was crass—commonplace in someone born on the wrong side of the blanket who had come into his fortune later in life, Tristan supposed.

“I need money,” he said. “Tomorrow.”