Chapter Six
They passed over the long North Bridge, heading toward the Old Town. From the bridge, a magnificent view unfolded—to the left, the nearly finished tower of the Nelson monument pierced the sky above Calton Hill; to the right, the castle, perched high on a craggy outcropping to overlook the city; ahead, the old stone buildings of the medieval city, tall and dark and piled close together. Inky smoke rose from countless chimneys, curling into the gray winter sky.
Carriages rambled slowly past them, the rattling wheels and snorting horses mingling with the sounds from the fish and vegetable market below the bridge. Eleanor had gone to the market with Georgina, who liked to people watch, and looked on as fisherwomen sold cod and herring, flounder and salmon and oysters, either from carts or wicker baskets. The haggling between the sellers and buyers had been a shrill crescendo, filling the paved space below the bridge until one could barely hear themselves think.
The alehouse Mr. MacGregor led her to was at the periphery of the medieval part of the city, in a narrow close. It was as dark and dank on the inside as it was obscure on the outside. And it smelled oddly. Was that stale muskiness a male smell? If so, Eleanor wasn’t certain she wanted to get close to any males, ever.
She looked around as men chatted with one another, loud and rambunctious. A few groups were playing cards. All of them were drinking. Most of them were talking, sometimes at the same time. There were a few women drinking at the bar, too—lower class, possibly laborers of some sort, if their staid dresses and the tired hunch of their shoulders was any indication. A harried barman was filling tankard after tankard of ale. He wiped sweat off his brow and a glistening drop plummeted right into one of the tankards.
Eleanor’s stomach churned. She turned away from the barman and went to find a secluded table, or somewhat secluded. The noise was giving her a headache.
Eleanor had expected an alehouse that catered to intellectual people who simply wanted something to quench their thirst while they spoke of ideas and journals and research. Come to think of it, a coffeehouse seemed like a more appropriate place to meet with other society members. This place was clearly frequented by the working class, not scholars.
Did MacGregor live in the Old Town?
He dressed like a rich man, not a poor one. It didn’t make much sense to her.
She slid into the narrow space behind the only open table in the back. Mr. MacGregor, who’d offered to carry her display cabinets on the walk over, set them down underneath the table with a surprising amount of care before heading toward the barman.
She watched him move through the crowd. People parted to make space for him, as though he was an inexorable force of nature and the choices were either to yield or be conquered. His stride was powerful, purposeful, his body like a weapon, finely honed and full of intent.
She glanced away before he turned back, so he wouldn’t suspect her of observing him. A moment later, he set two tankards down and then eased himself into the wooden chair across from her. The chair creaked underneath his weight, even though he hadn’t sat down with particular disregard.
He took a large gulp of ale, and Eleanor found herself unwillingly fascinated by the powerful muscles of his throat.
She hadn’t known men were made like this—a collection of hard bone, hot blood, and thick muscle—a marriage of intersecting pieces that fit together in a way that was strong, but strangely elegant. Barely restrained power coursed through each of his movements, even in the simple lifting of a tankard to his mouth. He could probably take one of these chairs and break it in half if he truly wished to.
He was a rather magnificent specimen. If her interest was anatomy and not entomology, she might have been tempted to preserve his body for future study, to slice into the skin and see how those overlarge muscles were formed.
As it was, she admired the incredible width of his palm around the tankard handle surreptitiously, underneath her eyelashes.
No, the men she was acquainted with weren’t made like this, at all.
“Good ale,” he commented.
She jumped, avoided his gaze, and took a drink from her own tankard. She swallowed too quickly and coughed, which seemed to amuse him.
“What should we do next?” he said idly, that amused tilt never quite leaving his lips. “Visit a brothel, perhaps?”
She felt the blood drain from her face. “A brothel?” she squeaked.
“It sounds like just the thing. It will be a bonding experience, between men.”
Did men truly visit brothels with their friends? This news was alarming, to say the least. “I…I am not that sort of man!” she said, hoping she sounded more indignant than frightened.
“Ah, a virgin, then?” MacGregor said wisely.
She didn’t answer. She felt her face burning. Her whole body was burning, really.
“There’s no time like the present to fix that. I’m sure we can find you a gentle enough woman to introduce you to the ways of love.”
“Sir!”
“Are you waiting for someone special? A genteel lady whose heart flutters at the mere sight of a stag beetle?”
Was he mocking her? She felt like she was being mocked, and she didn’t think she liked it. “And what if I am? Tis better to be too discriminate than be as indiscriminate as…as a tomcat!”
Instead of looking offended, MacGregor grinned. “Oh, keep your wig on, Townsend. I’m only jesting. I’ve never met a man who was so offended by the mere thought of a brothel.”
Oh dear…had she blundered? Was he suspicious? Was it too late to pretend she loved brothels? Or would that make him reissue the offer in earnestness?
To distract herself—and end their conversation—she took a long swig of ale, but this time she was prepared, and she didn’t end up coughing.
She wiped off her mouth with the back of her hand in what she assumed was a manly fashion. “Very good.”
MacGregor laughed softly, a deep sound that caused another little twinge in her stomach.
Truthfully, the ale wasn’t as bad as she’d been expecting, though she still preferred wine.
“This is the best alehouse in the Old Town,” he said.
She tried to puzzle him out. He dressed like a rich man but frequented alehouses in one of the poorer sections of Edinburgh?
“Are you a gentleman of leisure?” she asked bluntly, though she was almost certain he was not.
“I’m a pugilist. A prizefighter for several years.”
Prizefighting was technically illegal, but that didn’t stop it from being a popular sport. She wasn’t that surprised to find it had been his profession, given his size and broken nose, and the arrogance that seemed to wrap around him like a second skin.
“I’m mostly done with competition, though. Now I run a saloon to teach the craft.”
“It does well?”
“Very well,” he said. “Pugilism is a popular hobby among gentlemen.”
“But you are interested in entomology as well?”
“Oh, not at all,” he said blithely, leaning back. His chair creaked again.
“Then why were you at today’s meeting?”
“I was interested in meeting the Earl of Lark.”
She was starting to feel like she was stepping into something she didn’t understand. “Why?”
“I wish to marry his daughter.”
She snorted.
“What?”
“More than one man in Edinburgh wishes to marry the Earl of Lark’s daughter, I’m sure. She’s beautiful and graceful and really quite kind. But that also means she has no lack of suitors.”
“You don’t think I stand a chance?”
“You…”
“Yes?” he said, still smiling. For such a large, forbidding-looking man, he smiled a lot. It was a bit unnerving. But perhaps he meant it to be.
“Forgive my honesty, but I’ve never even heard your name mentioned in polite Society. I doubt very much that the Earl of Lark wants his daughter to marry a pugilist. Wealth can help, certainly, but it isn’t always enough. And why would she want to marry you?”
“A good question. Though I think I’d like the chance to court her. I’m positive I’m twice as exciting as any of her current suitors.”
“That’s a matter of opinion.” Eleanor found herself reaching for more ale as she spoke. “How will you even meet her? You don’t frequent the same circles.”
“But you do.”
“Why do you assume that?” she asked quickly, remembering that she was only supposed to be a distant relative of the Earl of Arden, not an intimate.
“You said, ‘She’s beautiful and graceful and really quite kind.’”
“Did I?”
“You can’t take it back now. I know you’re acquainted with her.”
“I’m not going to introduce a pugilism instructor to the Earl of Lark’s daughter,” she said. “It would be unusual, to say the least. And I don’t even know you, sir. I can’t vouch for your character.”
“My character isn’t very good, I’m afraid. I swear too much. I speak too bluntly. I was never taught how to behave around a lady. But you can help me with that. And then you can bring me into your circle. And then I’ll take care of the rest.”
She stiffened at his command. “Why should I do a thing like that?”
He tilted his head. “Did I mention you have a lovely voice?”
Everything inside her turned to ice. She realized, too late, that she’d been so focused on their conversation she hadn’t been disguising her voice. He watched her with open amusement, like a cat watching a mouse scurrying for safety when it knew the creature couldn’t escape. He watched her as though he enjoyed seeing her flounder. For an instant, she almost hated him.
As though he could read her thoughts, he said, “I knew after the lecture. You did slip just now, but I already knew.”
“Knew what?” she forced herself to ask, even though her throat felt too thick to speak.
“I’ll give you points for tenacity, but please don’t take me for a fool. I’m smarter than I look. But what is your real name? Should I address you as Miss Townsend or is it something else entirely?”
A pit formed in her stomach. What had she done? She’d been so thorough, so painstaking. She’d thought her plan was foolproof. “How?” The word cracked like a whip.
He shrugged. “You lifted your hand to brush your hair back.”
She sat there, stunned. “That was it?”
“That was the most telling thing.”
All of her preparations. All of her work. All crumbling away because she’d accidentally lifted her hand to brush back her hair and this man had seen it? What were the odds of such bad luck? If she wasn’t on the verge of hysteria, she might have been tempted to laugh.
“Don’t look so devastated,” he said lightly. “I think this will be a good partnership for both of us.”
“Partnership?” she said, scowling. She clung to her irritation. Clung to it like a piece of driftwood in a raging, frothing sea. If she didn’t cling to something, a wave would take her under, tossing her around like a ragdoll.
She’d been so close.
“I only need your help temporarily. Once you give me access to Lady Sarah, I’ll do the rest,” he said.
“And what do I get out of our partnership?” she asked, even though she already knew.
“My silence. My help even, if there’s anything I can help you with. I’m sure it’s not easy to maintain another identity.”
“I don’t want your help,” she said mulishly.
“Now, Cecil, don’t be rude.” He cocked his head in that annoying way he had, like he knew everything and would gladly lord it over anyone if he had the opportunity. “Why did you settle on Cecil?”
“It is a perfectly fine name,” she seethed.
“If you insist.”
She stood, glad that she could at least tower over him when he was still seated. “I do insist,” she said, only because she didn’t want to yield to him on this one point, no matter how meaningless.
She grabbed at one of her cabinets. She tried to pile them all up in her arms, but they teetered precariously. Mr. MacGregor might be able to carry them all at once, but they were too cumbersome for her. She’d had Georgina and Robert’s help when she’d loaded them into the carriage, and a society member’s help when she’d unloaded them.
Now she only had MacGregor.
She felt the one on top tipping, sliding. She lurched forward, trying to save it. She would dive to the floor if she had to.
But MacGregor plucked it from her arms as though it was as light as a kitten. She stumbled against him and he righted her with one surprisingly gentle nudge, coming from such a large man. The touch to her arm was brief, but even through her coat sleeves she felt a strange warm tingle that stretched about the circumference of his hand.
While she stood glaring up at him, he took the rest of the display cabinets.
“Can I be of assistance?”
She’d never been more tempted to strike someone. If this was how he affected most people, mayhap he’d become a pugilist out of necessity.
She wished she could toss her hair and sweep from the alehouse like some fiery heroine, but she was currently dressed as a man, had no hair to toss except her wig, was in an unfamiliar part of the city, and had no way to carry her cabinets, except enlisting the help of men of dubious character whom she didn’t know.
MacGregor might be of dubious character, but she felt like she knew the extent of his dubiousness, which was something. She didn’t worry her safety might be threatened by him—her reputation and future if she didn’t do as he asked, yes, but not her immediate safety.
So the sweeping, hair-tossing path of the fiery heroine was out of the question.
She righted her unneeded spectacles, which had been knocked askew during her wrestle with the cabinets.
“Do keep up,” she said coolly, turning away from him and walking to the door with calm, measured strides.
She could almost feel his triumphant grin burning into her back.