The offices of Chegarre & Associates were located in the chaotic Covent Square, a stone’s throw from the Drury theater and the hulking shadow of St Paul’s Church. The old townhome where the offices resided had once been grand, and the square along with it. Now, the rowdy piazzas and boisterous marketplaces boasted a populace of a different sort than it had once attracted a century prior. Entertainers of every variety―both artistic and intimate―were found in droves here. Traffic bustled at all hours of the day and night as people peddled their wares and services. There was nothing that could not be had so long as one had the knowledge of where to find it and the coin with which to procure it.
The unending traffic suited the partners of Chegarre & Associates immensely. Flanked by a teeming tenement on one side and an upscale brothel on the other, the strange hours that were often kept by its members were never noticed, much less remarked upon.
Alexander Lavoie had been a partner in the firm for over six years, and there was very little that he believed might yet be left to surprise him. Extortion, kidnappings, illicit affairs, elopements, inconvenient deaths—just a few of the things Alex had been presented with by desperate people who were even more desperate to make it all go away. People frantic to cover up a whole host of horrible choices, bad judgments, sinful greed, and utter idiocy. And the partners at Chegarre & Associates were extremely skilled at making scandal disappear.
All for an exorbitant fee, of course.
It was in these offices that Alex found himself as the sun slowly rose into morning proper, staring into the whiskey that sat in the bottom of his glass, brooding. At least, he thought that his current state might be called brooding, though he had little experience with it. He was more of a man of action. Assimilate, calculate, act.
Though last night he would have been better to avoid the last part of that. Assimilate, calculate, and then keep his damn hands to himself.
He had known touching Angelique Archer was a bad idea. Yet that hadn’t stopped him from almost kissing her. Which would have been the worst idea ever. She wasn’t a courtesan who had come to his club to propose a few hours or even a few months of mutual pleasure. She was a lady. And the most tempting, sensual woman he had ever come across in his life. And the bloody impossible thing about it was that she seemed to be oblivious to the fact.
He’d been deliberately crude in his comments more than once, and in hindsight, he wondered if he’d been making a subconscious effort to put a barrier between them. A reminder that she would be better to keep her distance. A reminder that they came from different worlds. Except her reaction to his vulgar remarks had not been what he’d expected.
I wouldn’t tie you up to get what I wanted. Unless, of course, you insisted on it.
He’d heard her breath catch, saw her eyes go hot. And that was dangerous. Bloody hell, but if her reeking, drooling excuse of a brother hadn’t been lying at their feet, he might have—
“You are aware that this is my office, are you not?”
Alex raised his eyes from his whiskey, careful not to drop the heavy ledger he was balancing in his other hand. “And a good morning to you too, Duchess.”
Ivory Moore shot him a faintly accusing look from the doorway, her brown eyes narrowed. “Some people knock when presented with a locked door.”
“It was early. And you weren’t in your office. Knew you wouldn’t mind.”
Ivory closed the door firmly behind her and wandered into the room, moving past Alex to consider the sideboard with its collection of decanters that sat against the far wall. She picked up the depleted whiskey bottle and, after a heartbeat, poured herself a measure in an empty glass. “Did you kill someone?” she asked, setting the whiskey down.
“Why ever would you ask that?”
“You’re drinking your breakfast. Never a good sign.”
“Cook didn’t have kippers ready. And no, I didn’t kill anyone. Though I might have considered it.”
Ivory turned around, taking a contemplative sip. The morning light streaming in through the window gave her chestnut hair a golden sheen and made her flawless complexion glow. She nodded at the ledger. “Who are you looking for?”
The ledger Alex held was one of hundreds, and it contained the secrets, scandals, and detailed personal information of the most prominent and influential families in England. The collection of ledgers had been started by Ivory’s first husband, the very powerful and very clever Duke of Knightley. The old duke had had a reputation as a master meddler, a fixer of unfixable problems, and upon his death, Ivory had not only maintained his diligent information collection but had used that to found the very successful firm of Chegarre & Associates and continue his work.
“The Marquess of Hutton,” Alex replied, returning his attention to the notes in front of him.
“The late marquess or the new one?” Ivory wrinkled her nose slightly.
“Both, I think.”
“May I ask why?”
Alex hesitated. Why indeed? “I had the good fortune to meet Lady Angelique Archer last night.”
A single sable brow rose. “Ah. The infamous Marble Maiden.” Ivory frowned. “Where?”
“In my club.”
“In your club?” It was repeated with disbelief.
“Indeed.” Alex ran a finger down the dates noted in the margin. “It says here her father sold his Wooliston estate two years ago.”
Ivory pushed herself off the sideboard, her plain woolen skirts swishing quietly as she approached the desk that sat solidly in the center of the room. “Yes. Which wouldn’t bear interest except, if you read further, you’ll see that the late Marquess of Hutton sold nearly all of the Hutton land holdings.” She stopped at his shoulder. “Why was the Marble Maiden in your club?”
“She was playing vingt-et-un,” Alex replied, distracted. His eyes skimmed lower over more entries of Hutton properties that had been sold. “Good Lord. I thought grand lords entailed everything so that this couldn’t happen.”
Ivory shrugged. “If those properties were entailed, it was all cut off at some point in time. Those were all free-hold.”
Alex shook his head. “There can’t be much left. How could the late marquess sell this much without creating a stir? Surely this would provoke all sorts of speculation.”
“The bulk of the holdings were in the very north along the Scottish border, or in the west along the Welsh border. No big houses or grand castles, but mostly farm or grazing land. Also a fair bit of land with working coal mines. That land was the last to be sold because those mines contributed significantly to the Hutton income. But it was all sold to different people at different times with well-spaced intervals for the most part.”
“Yet you know about it.”
“My husband bought a string of his mines before we were married. He mentioned that Hutton had demanded utter discretion regarding the transaction. I found that interesting, so I chose to…investigate further, and discovered what you see there on that page. I wasn’t sure if that information was of any importance, but it seemed odd enough to make note of.”
“Alderidge bought a coal mine? What, he was bored with being a pirate?”
Ivory made a face at him. “I believe the word you’re looking for is captain. And my husband believes in diversification when it comes to investment.”
“Ah yes. I’m sure they teach that at pirate school. Never bury all your treasure on the same island.”
“You did not come here to talk about my husband,” she said with a hint of impatience. “You came here for information regarding the Archers. And perhaps to discover the reason why the Marble Maiden was dabbling at your vingt-et-un table?”
“She wasn’t dabbling.”
“But you just said—”
“She was dominating my vingt-et-un table. I’d like to hire her.” Alex scanned the rest of the page. “Tell me about the new marquess. The son. There is almost nothing on him in here.”
“That’s because he is a nothing. I am made to understand his intelligence is below average, as is his political acumen and anything else not related to whoring and drinking. And even then, I am told that drinking is the only thing he does with any proficiency.” She set her glass down on the edge of her desk.
Alex felt his lip curl in distaste. “You may keep any details of Hutton’s carnal competence to yourself in the future, Duchess.”
“You asked. Wait, what did you mean, exactly, when you said she was dominating your vingt-et-un table? And hire her to do what? Or are those the sort of details you might wish to keep to yourself?” she asked innocently.
Alex shot her a quelling look, though the idea of Angelique Archer reclining across the green baize of his gaming tables made his groin tighten. “The lady divested Baron Daventon and others of a significant amount of cash. I want to hire her to deal.”
“Deal?”
“So my patrons play against the house and not themselves. There is more money to be made that way if one knows what one is doing. And Lady Angelique most assuredly does.” He slid the ledger back on the shelf. “Tell me why the late marquess was selling the Hutton holdings like a Petticoat Lane fence.”
“I honestly have no idea.”
“It says here the marchioness died five years ago. Do you remember of what?”
“An illness of some sort. But her husband was killed by a highwayman—”
“Near Bath. Yes, I recall reading about it.”
Ivory gazed at him with those shrewd eyes of hers. “Is there something else you’d like to share, Alex? Something that you discovered about the Marble Maiden that prompted this little visit? Aside, of course, from the fact that she’s a card sharp?”
She is beyond brilliant. And beautiful. And alone. And I want her. For far more than dealing cards. Alex swirled the dregs of his whiskey before downing them in a gulp. When he faced Ivory Moore, his face was arranged neutrally. “She is not what she pretends to be.”
“That’s a rather cryptic statement, even from you, Alex.”
“The town house in which she and her brother live is empty. It echoes the way houses do when devoid of furnishings and whatnot. Nothing on the walls. Nothing on the floors. No servants. No fires lit in the hearths.”
“I see.” Ivory ran a finger around the rim of her glass. “And exactly when were you in her house?”
“Last night.”
“Did she know you were there?”
Alex threw her a disgusted look. “I wasn’t housebreaking.”
“Of course not. You save those skills for my office.” Her lips twitched.
Alex leaned back and set his empty glass next to Ivory’s. “Her brother had too much to drink. She needed assistance getting him home, and I was in a position to help her. I suspect that the Hutton family carriage has been sold right along with the art and the silverware. And every coal mine and sheep pasture.” He paused. “You see where I’m going with this, Duchess?”
“It suggests that the current marquess and his family are living in somewhat…diminished circumstances, though they’ve managed to maintain an admirable façade.”
Alex moved to the end of the ornate Chippendale bookcase that sat alongside the recessed shelves of ledgers. He leaned his shoulder into the bookcase and rolled it neatly sideways, concealing the existence of the shelves and their contents. “The façade will have been paid for with the silverware,” he mused. “But I want to know what happened to the fortune old Hutton systematically and secretly amassed.”
“Why do you care? The marquess could have invested in something else. Maybe he felt moved to give his fortune to the poor. Or to the church. You know as well as I do that what a peer chooses to do with his money is really no concern of ours. Until they hire us to make it our concern, of course.”
Ivory was right. What the old Marquess of Hutton had done with his money and his estate was none of his business. And if the new marquess wanted to drink away whatever remained of it, then that wasn’t really his business either. Lady Angelique had not asked him for help nor had she confided anything to him. In fact, she’d likely be horrified to know just how much he knew. But he couldn’t simply walk away from her.
Especially after he’d almost kissed her.
“I—” He never got a chance to reply before there was a brisk knock on the door, and he was almost relieved. He strode over and pulled the door open, finding a young boy of approximately nine years wearing neat livery. “Good morning, Roderick,” Alex greeted.
“Oh, good morning, Mr. Alex. I didn’t know you were here,” the boy exclaimed, his eyes wide.
Alex swung the door open. “You saw me come in, Roderick. You were hiding in that hall alcove.”
The boy’s face fell. “How could you possibly know that?” he grumbled as he brushed by Alex. “I made sure you couldn’t see me.”
“True. But your surprised reaction to my presence would be more appropriate had a trained gorilla opened the door. Your acting was terrible. I thought you were working on that.”
“I am. I’ve been practicing with Miz Elise.”
“Then perhaps my sister has not emphasized that, if you truly want people to believe you, less is more. Too much accentuation always draws attention.”
“Huh.” Roderick ran a scrawny hand through his dark hair.
“Is there something you need, Roderick?” Ivory asked, coming to join Alex by the door.
“Yes.” The boy straightened his bony shoulders as though preparing himself to announce a monarch. “The Harris brothers are here to see you, Duchess.”
“See? Now that I believed,” Alex said. “That was well done, Roddy.”
The boy scowled. “I’m not making that up.”
“There are a gang of thieves wishing an audience with the Duchess at—” He reached for his timepiece, but found his pocket empty. He sighed and held out a hand. “My watch, Roderick.”
The boy offered him a cheeky grin but reached into his own pocket and retrieved the simple piece. “You should chain it. Not much of a challenge, Mr. Alex.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. And when your acting ability matches your ability to pick pockets, I’ll hire you myself. In the meantime”—Alex consulted the face of his timepiece—“is half of seven in the morning not a tad early to be meeting with thieves?”
“They’re not thieves anymore,” Roderick clarified. “They are gentlemen since they got rich and retired.”
“Right. That explains everything then.” He turned to Ivory. “Were you expecting them?”
“No.” She shrugged. “But I’ll be glad to see them. Send them in, please, Roddy.”
“Very good.” The boy brightened and disappeared.
“Are they returning something they stole?” Alex asked dryly.
“No.” Ivory frowned. “Why?”
“You sounded awfully pleased at their presence.”
“I’m pleased that they are here. Their retirement has left a hole for me to fill, and I confess, I haven’t been able to do it very effectively. There are not as many men as you would think whose skill with weapons is matched only with an incredible knowledge of the London streets.”
The sound of booted feet approaching the doorway made them both turn. There were three brothers, all of differing heights, but all had the same dark hair, the same dark eyes, and the same hard look that long years of soldiering had carved into their faces. The last time Alex had seen them, they were dressed to blend in with the working masses at the London docks, but this morning they looked like…gentlemen. They were dressed well, if plainly, each sporting hair that was a lot shorter than he remembered and clean-shaven faces. They looked like a thousand other men who might be found walking London’s streets. Alex might have passed by them without recognizing them.
The tallest one doffed his hat and offered some sort of awkward bow toward Ivory. “’Morning, Duchess,” he said almost bashfully, clearly the spokesperson for the trio.
“Good morning, Mr. Harris.” Ivory’s face creased into a smile, and her greeting encompassed all of them. “You remember my colleague, Mr. Lavoie?”
Three sets of eyes turned in his direction, followed by an assortment of murmured greetings.
“I must say, this is a surprise. What can I do for you?”
The men’s attention returned to Ivory, and the tallest stepped forward. “Ah yes.” His eyes darted around the room. “We were just wonderin’ if…” He trailed off. “We don’t mean any disrespect from this, ye understand,” he tried again. “’Specially since you’ve been so good to us an’ all, what with that last job.”
“Your payment was well-earned,” Ivory commented.
“It’s just that…”
Beside him, the shortest of the three brothers made an impatient noise. “Me brother wants to know if ye might have any more work for us. We like eatin’ regular like and wearin’ warm clothes, but the truth o’ the matter is, we’re bored.” Tall Harris looked relieved at his brother’s bluntness.
“Ah. I see.”
“We’d not need to go t’ stealin’,” Tall Harris said. “But maybe ye’ve got something you need fetched. Retrieved. From a difficult place, like?”
“I have to confess, I am delighted to hear that your services are once again available,” Ivory said. “Unfortunately, I don’t have anything that needs to be…fetched at the moment.”
Three faces fell in the same manner that Roddy’s had.
“Well, ye’ll let us know if something changes?” Tall Harris asked.
“Of course.”
The brothers turned to leave.
“I know you’re good at fetching. How are you at following?” Alex’s words stopped them in their tracks. He ignored the questioning glance Ivory shot in his direction.
“The best,” Tall Harris replied. “You want the bloke to know about it or no?”
“I have no interest in intimidation. Yet,” Alex replied, continuing to ignore Ivory’s raised brows. “There are two people I wish followed. Discreetly. Very discreetly. Make note of where they go. Who they speak to. What they do. If they spend any money, and what they spend it on. Anything else of interest that you witness. Report back to me tomorrow evening, early, before my club opens.” The idea had been impulsive, but the more he thought about it, the more he liked it.
“Understood, Mr. Lavoie.”
Behind Tall Harris, Ivory had crossed her arms.
“If you care to wait just outside, I’ll be there shortly to provide details and finalize our arrangement,” Alex said smoothly. “I just need a moment with the Duchess.”
“Of course.” The Harrises were all grinning broadly as they shuffled out.
“Well, that was fortunate timing,” Alex said as the door shut behind them.
“You’re going to pay to have the Marble Maiden followed?” Ivory said, a little incredulously.
Alex frowned. “Yes, I am going to have Lady Angelique followed. More importantly, I’m going to have her wastrel of a brother followed.”
“Why?”
Alex cleared his throat. “Like I said, I want to hire Lady Angelique. And therefore, I need to know everything about her, and about her immediate family. I despise it when skeletons pop out of closets and make messes all over my floors.” There, that sounded coolly professional and logical. “Further, I’d consider it a favor, Duchess, if you might do whatever it is you do and see what you can discover about the Archer family that hasn’t yet made it into those ledgers of yours.”
Ivory unfolded her arms across her chest and regarded him. “Very well. I’ll see what I can find out.”
“Thank you.” If anyone could bleed information from a stone when it came to London society, Ivory Moore could. He strode to the door.
“Where are you going?” Ivory asked, recrossing her arms.
“I’ve a few errands to attend to. Then home.” Alex squinted slightly at the morning sunlight streaming into the room. “It’s way past my bedtime.”
* * *
It was the late morning sunlight streaming through the windows that woke Angelique. She’d never closed the curtains properly when she’d finally stumbled into bed sometime before dawn, collapsing in an exhausted stupor. Though as tired as she was, sleep had been a long time coming. Because after everything that had transpired last night, it was Alexander Lavoie’s words that thrummed through her mind, just as sure as they thrummed through her body.
I think you and I would be very good together.
She had wanted to experience just how good, if only for a moment. Because Angelique was beginning to suspect that her education in the pursuit of pleasure had been horribly…inadequate. Last night had been a debacle, but for a few stolen moments Alexander Lavoie had made her feel wanted. Admired. Desired. And just the thought of Alexander Lavoie’s touch on her skin and his mouth so close to hers had her squirming anew, that restless, throbbing ache beginning to drum a steady beat at her very core. Her hand drifted over her breasts, her belly, and that very sensitive spot beneath the thin layer of her chemise. She closed her eyes, her hips arching. What would it be like to have his lips on hers? What would it feel like to have his hands on her like this? His heat against her bare skin, his fingers delving lower and lower—her eyes flew open, and she snatched her hand back from where it had strayed. What was she doing?
She lay on her back in a mess of twisted sheets and stared up at the ceiling, feeling her cheeks burn and watching dust motes dance in the sunbeams. Around her, the house was silent as a tomb, and for once, she was glad for it. This was why she couldn’t ever work for Alexander Lavoie. She was reasonably sure she could get over the idea of a lady working in a gambling hell, dealing vingt-et-un and divesting gentlemen of small fortunes. She could come to terms with the possibility that she might be recognized. She could accept that she was no longer a lady, but an employee, no different than any Drury Lane actress. She could get over all that.
But she could not get over Alexander Lavoie.
She wasn’t even sure if she’d ever be able to gamble in his establishment again with any degree of focus or concentration. He was a gentleman and then something far more dangerous all at once. And she found she liked them both far too much.
She sat up, forcing her mind away from selfish desires. She had a great deal to accomplish today. First was to make arrangements for payment to the school for the twins’ tuition. Harrow was not a tavern where the proprietor might be put off for a while longer with a sunny smile and earnest promises. The directors had been letting their displeasure at her delinquency be known, though she had managed to stall them with a long list of excuses citing the transition of funds from her late father to the current Marquess of Hutton. But she was on borrowed time, and they all knew it. Best to get the matter of the boys’ tuition settled immediately.
Whatever was left over would be earmarked for household expenses. The collier needed to be paid. The pantries needed to be replenished. And Angelique would also need to have a long, serious conversation with Gerald about his actions last night. She wasn’t sure it would do much good, but she had to try.
Because it had to stop.
Angelique swung her legs around and sat on the edge of the bed and glanced toward the window. Good Lord, but it must almost be midday. When she had finally found sleep, it seemed that she had slept the sleep of the dead. Next to the window, her gold gown lay crumpled in a pile of silk on the floor. Angelique frowned. She hadn’t left it on the floor. She’d left her gown draped over the chair under the window, the skirts hiding her reticule—
No, no, no, no. Angelique lurched from the bed, stumbling over to where the gown lay. She snatched it from the floor, already knowing it was too late, but needing to look anyway. She shook the fabric before tossing it on the bed, dropping to her hands and knees in front of the chair. But it was for nothing.
Her reticule was gone. The money was gone.
For a moment, she thought she might be sick. She drew in shuddering breaths, fighting the urge to retch. And then in the next instant, a fury like she had never known before rose up, leaving black spots dancing at the edge of her vision. Without considering what she was doing, she shoved herself to her feet and bolted to the door, running down the hall. She wrenched open the door to Gerald’s rooms to find his clothes from last night in a heap on the floor, a towel flung over the end of the bed, and a half-full basin of soapy water on the washstand, his shaving tools scattered on the surface next to it. But of her brother there was no sign. Angelique bolted from the room and pounded down the staircase.
The hall was deserted, only the blanket that she had covered Gerald with last night draped over the small table in the middle of the hall. A door creaked open from behind her, and Angelique whirled, finding Tildy standing behind her, a small pitcher of water clutched in her gnarled fingers. The woman uttered a startled squeak of surprise as she looked up.
“Where is Gerald?” Angelique demanded hoarsely.
“I—I don’t know.” The woman was blinking rapidly. “His lordship left, milady.”
“Left? When?”
“’Bout an hour ago.” The water pitcher trembled in Tildy’s hands.
Angelique focused on taking deep, calming breaths. “Did he say where he was going?” Perhaps it was possible to find him. Intercept him before he did something stupid like spend the money that would keep his young brothers in school.
“S—said he was looking to find a new coat. Something about his last one being ruined? And then off to a club?” Faded blue eyes watched Angelique from under a fringe of grey hair with apprehension. “He was in finer spirits than he’s been in a long time,” the housekeeper offered hopefully.
Oh God. Gerald had taken the money right from her room, and she’d slept through it. She wanted to rail at Tildy, demand to know why the housekeeper hadn’t woken her, demand to know why the woman had let Gerald leave the house. But none of this was Tildy’s fault. The poor woman hadn’t even known about the money, and she couldn’t have stopped Gerald from leaving even if she had wanted to. This was Angelique’s fault and her fault alone. She should have done a better job hiding the money. She should have put it under her mattress, under her pillow. She should have traveled directly to Harrow from Lavoie’s and put the damn money in the directors’ hands herself. She wrapped her arms around her waist. How had Gerald even known she’d had it?
And the money wasn’t even all hers. The thought made her blood run cold. Some of that money was Lavoie’s—an advance that she had planned to return to him when she declined his offer of employment. She swallowed with difficulty, sweat prickling at her scalp.
“Do you know what direction he might have gone?” Angelique asked the housekeeper who was still standing frozen in front of her.
“No, milady. Is everything all right, milady?”
“No,” Angelique managed. “Everything is not all right. It hasn’t been all right for a long time.”
Without another word, Angelique spun and hurried back up the stairs. Standing in the middle of a hall served no purpose. She needed to go and find Gerald before it was too late. If she was lucky, he’d still be at the tailor, or possibly the draper, selecting fabric. If she was lucky, she’d catch up to him and get whatever remained of that money back.