Chapter Two
“What do you mean you’re leaving?”
It was much to her mother’s credit that she looked so composed and remarkably unaffected by Margaret’s outburst, and only calmly sipped her tea as she had been doing all afternoon.
“For heaven’s sake, child,” Aunt Ada snapped, raising an overly wrinkled hand to her powdered brow, “do moderate your tone. One would think you were raised by gypsies rather than my own nephew.”
Margaret gave her great aunt as close to a withering glance as she dared, which was not seen, as the aged woman was bemoaning her approaching megrim.
It had all happened so suddenly, everything as per their usual visits with Aunt Ada, down to the sickening potpourri and the tedious conversation that swirled the same tiresome topics. Margaret was never really invested in these outings and very rarely participated, aside from the mindless and noncommittal answers she could safely offer at any time. It had served her well the last three years, and the ability to listen without truly listening was truly a gift where Aunt Ada was concerned.
But her ears had perked up sharply when her mother had said the words “Europe” and “leaving” within a single breath of each other, and as she was brought back to the conversation at hand, she had intelligence enough to piece together the shocking truth that her parents intended to leave England for the Continent. Again.
Her mother set her cup aside and gave Margaret the smile that told her she was still a child in her eyes. “Surely it cannot be such a surprise, darling. You’ve heard your father and I suggest any number of countries from which we could secure you a husband. Only minutes ago, you and I agreed upon Austria as an option.”
Margaret gaped and shook her head. “I never agreed to anything. I only conceded that Austrians are elegant, and I could name a few that would be exceptions there. I didn’t know…”
Her mother sighed and offered a pitying look. “You’ve had three Seasons, Margaret. That is long enough for Britain’s finest bachelors to try for you. None have.”
Margaret felt her cheeks flush and she raised one of her lace-gloved hands to her face. “You needn’t make me sound so frightful.”
“You are,” Aunt Ada croaked as she rattled her teacup. “You’ve grown plump, and those eyebrows of yours are frightfully out of sorts. Too round in the face, and your lips are much too full. You must use powder to calm your complexion and a bit of lip paint to soften those monstrosities. No wonder no man can abide you, child, you hardly look the part.”
Though she was beyond accustomed to her great-aunt’s severity and criticism, this time it stung.
Her mother sniffed softly, but made no defense for her, as usual. “There are hardly any suitable candidates for you, my love. Certainly none that your father would agree to, even if they had shown an interest. No, no, our best chances for you lie in Europe, and we are certain to find some fine man for you there. How do you feel about Prussians?”
Margaret felt her throat closing up and barely choked out, “Hairy,” which made her mother chuckle.
“Oh, they are not,” she scolded. “And even if they were, it is better for them to have hair than not.”
“Mama, please,” Margaret begged quietly, suddenly realizing that she held tea in her hands and that it was quite cold. She set it aside and folded her hands as primly as she could while they shook. “Please, let me have this Season,” she pleaded. “I’ve just spoken with Rosalind Arden this week, and we had settled ourselves with ideas for similar social gatherings, and you know how important it is to have friends in such endeavors.”
“I do indeed,” her mother said, nodding so sagely it was unsettling, “and if Rosalind Arden would pay any attention to that dashing Captain Riverton, she would have quite the match herself.”
Margaret rolled her eyes. “She says he’s too confident by half.”
“And why is that to be faulted?” her mother shot back. “A man with his pedigree and history in battle has earned his confidence.”
A faint growl started in Margaret’s throat. “Captain Riverton is not the issue, Mama.”
“He ought to be,” Aunt Ada muttered as she shifted her voluminous skirts. “And if your waist were the size it ought to be, child, you might have his issue as well.”
Now Margaret’s cheeks flamed in earnest and she raised her other hand to them as well. “Aunt!”
The old woman shrugged, her gaudy jewelry jangling against her skin. “If you will not put forth the efforts to secure what Britain offers, Margaret Mary Christianne, you cannot be fastidious about the rest of the world. Your parents are quite right, Europe is the place to get you a husband.” She reached for her tea and somehow shook the cup enough to rattle it but not spill a drop. “Might be the only place at your age.”
“I am but twenty-two!” Margaret protested.
“I had three children by your age,” her great-aunt snapped. “Much good that did me. Had any been worth the effort, they would have provided me with proper heirs and then I would not have to squander my considerable fortune upon such a hopeless case as yourself.”
“Now, Ada,” her mother placated, her voice as calm as the spring morning, “Margaret is unique, but hardly hopeless.”
Well, that was a flattering description.
“Mama,” Margaret whispered, her hands falling into her lap. “Please.”
The blue eyes so similar to hers turned to meet her and she saw the concern behind the smile. “Darling, you may have your Season, of course. You are to remain with a chaperone that we will hire for you, and she will help you to make the most of this final London Season. And should you find a man suitable for you here, so be it. But should the previous patterns follow, we will have a list of eligible and willing candidates on the Continent. I’ve already written to the Contessa Olivario, and you know she has impeccable taste.”
Margaret’s eyes widened and she swallowed with difficulty. The contessa did have impeccable taste… in horses. Her taste in men ranged from the dandy to the peacock, and the variety within was only in the shade of waistcoats and lavishness of cravats. They had limited intelligence and lacked interest in anything of substance.
None of her selections would do at all.
And she highly doubted her parents’ would be any better.
“Don’t look so forlorn, dear,” her mother said with a placating smile. “It is only a preliminary trip, we will not be gone for long. Just enough to get an idea of prospects, and then, after your Season, we will take you and all go together.”
Preliminary trip or not, this was the absolute worst thing she could have heard. Her parents would be looking for husbands everywhere, and no matter what her mother said, they would return with candidates and plans for her.
“When will you depart?” she whispered, her lips barely moving.
Her mother smiled and sipped her tea again. “In a week, I believe. Pass the crumpets, darling, I think I will have another.”
Aunt Ada snorted and clinked her teacup and saucer once more. “Oh, really, Millicent, it’s no wonder the child is chubby, the way you carry on with your diet.”
The two traded words for a while as Margaret sat in her stupor, slowly losing feeling in her extremities.
Marriage to a European would mean leaving England, perhaps forever. She had always known her parents would prefer that, and they had certainly spoken of it before, but she’d never heard of any plans to move in that direction. It had only ever been talk, never action.
Now a course had been set. Without her knowledge or consent, but that had never been in consideration anyway. She supposed she should be grateful that an engagement was not already in place, and that she was permitted to remain while they returned to the Continent. This Season would be her only chance to stay in England.
But for the life of her, she could not think of a single gentleman that she would wish to marry.
If they took gentlemen out of the requirements, she could think of one man who might serve her well…
She closed her eyes against the flash of pain and bit her lip. Her parents would never allow that sort of union. Even if she ruined herself with him, a rather intriguing thing to imagine, they would not follow British protocol and force a marriage. No, they would have only scuttled her away to Europe faster and arranged something with a man with less moral principle than British society would have.
Would she ever be able to forget him long enough to allow another man to capture her fancy?
It was a laughable thought, as she was too wrapped up in his mystery to even consider anyone else.
She would have to let him go to save herself. Not that she ever had him or anything of the sort, and it was a silly, girlish notion to pretend otherwise. But she could not deny that he did have a hold on her, and she had gleefully let him have it. Whatever she had built up in her own mind would have to fade into the background.
Falling in love was no longer an option.
A sensible, respectable marriage with congenial friendship would suffice. Love could grow. Good men could be found in Society, and a good man would make a far better husband than the rascal whose smile made her knees quiver. He probably had several ladies about town that he behaved similarly with. Why, he might even be married with six children, for all she knew.
Better to set her mind on a man who could keep her in England and give her a future.
Unfortunately, despite the best efforts of her parents and several governesses, tutors, and nannies, Margaret Easton had never been particularly adept at setting her mind on sensible things, and even worse at maintaining resolve, particularly where propriety was required. She’d always had a free spirit and independent will, no matter how prim and docile she appeared. Her parents had encouraged it, as several European families also did.
Could such an unconventional English girl snag a conventional, yet somehow still exciting English husband with only one Season to do so?
She swallowed and sipped her cold tea without tasting it.
It might be impossible.
But it was her only hope.
Rafe groaned and shoved his hands into his dark hair, disheveling it further than it already was, if that was possible. He hated the tedium of paperwork more than he hated anything in his life, and the mountains of information he had collected by conversation was now before him on parchment as proof.
And all of the pertinent details he needed for his current task lay within them.
Which meant he had to pore over them all with exactness.
He was a spy, a pickpocket, an actor, a jack of all trades, and on good days, a passable codebreaker. He possessed many skills, far more than anybody knew, and could pick up just about anything new in record time. He spoke six languages fluently and could mimic accents of seven more.
But he was no scholar, and he had limited patience.
He was going to die here in this dank office, buried in the papers that he had been tasked with investigating.
How long would it take for someone to find his body, he wondered as he moved his head to rest against the desk, closing his eyes.
“I doubt you are going to glean any information that way,” Rogue’s voice drawled from the doorway.
“If I am useless, so be it,” Rafe returned, remaining as he was. “Then I will be dismissed and someone else will have to do this part.”
Rogue gave a dry chuckle. “It’s your own fault. If you would be more orderly in your interviews and structured in your reviews, this would all be much easier.”
“Don’t tell me how to do my job.”
“I would never.”
Something about his friend’s tone gave Rafe pause as he considered beating his head against the aged wood of his desk. He raised his uninjured head and squinted at him. “What?”
Rogue leaned against the doorjamb with what could almost be considered a smile for him, which meant it was a vacant expression for any normal human being. “One of your vagrants came to report just now.”
Rafe sighed in relief and satisfaction and avoided the urge to leap to his feet. “Excellent, I could use the distraction.”
Rogue didn’t move, but his mouth twitched, by some miracle, and Rafe stopped himself.
He sighed heavily. “You took the report already, didn’t you?”
“I would never dream of interrupting your analysis,” his friend replied with a mockingly respectful dip of his head. “I thought it my duty to see to the matter myself.”
Rafe glared at him. “You must be exhausted after using so many words at one time. Have a lie down, why don’t you?”
Rogue snorted and folded his arms, leaning more fully against his post. “If you would shut up for half a moment, you might find you are interested in what she had to say.”
Sinking down into his chair, Rafe narrowed his eyes. “She? It was one of my girls?”
“It was.”
“Which?”
“Daisy.”
Rafe grinned and leaned back in his chair. “Daisy dearest. I hope you were kind to her, Rogue. She’s only seven.”
The almost smile flicked again. “Yes, so she told me. Repeatedly.” He exhaled rather noisily. “And she kept clicking her tongue against those crooked teeth of hers.”
That drew a chuckle from him and he shook his head. “You can’t blame the child for her teeth. Besides, she’s adorable, under all that dirt.”
Rogue did not respond, which said mountains, and Rafe sat bolt upright.
“Good lord, you have no snide rebuttal,” he gasped with a wild grin.
Rogue’s pale eyes widened slightly.
“You like the child!” Rafe crowed, pointing a finger at him. “If you didn’t, you would have said something callous and cynical, and I would have thought nothing of it, but you have nothing to say! You like Daisy!”
Rogue muttered something no doubt very foul under his breath, as the man did have a gift with profanity, and shoved off of the wall. “Well, let me know when you’re going to read the banns for me, I’ll make sure to say nothing then as well.”
Rafe barked a laugh and waved a hand. “All right, I’m done, come back, come back.”
Rogue sniffed and moved to the desk. “Impudent whelp. If you were still the youngest of us, I’d toss you out on your arse.”
Rafe shrugged, still smiling. “Yes, well, feel free to wallop on Rook, then. He could use it, smarmy bloke.”
They both fell silent at the mention of their newest colleague, who had been with them almost a year, and still had not managed to fill the void Trace had left. He was the best of any of the others that had been put forth by the Foreign Office, but it was not the same. The man had all the potential in the world, and was doing rather well, impressively at times, but…
“Daisy says her mark is having a meeting,” Rogue said suddenly, his voice gruff as if he had been thinking along the same lines. “A maid in the house was overheard saying something about the master having gained a significant amount of money and having another meeting with some investors about it. Men of some importance, and when he returns from France…” He drew the silence out with emphasis, widening his eyes as if Rafe were dim-witted, “he would arrange matters.”
Rafe gnawed on his lip for a moment. “Interesting…” He suddenly looked back at the files atop his desk and rifled through several, pulling out the specific file he needed quickly. “Yes, that is interesting. He should be drowning in debt, not gaining anything. Investitures middling…” He thought for a moment, then glanced back up. “When is he due back, did the child say?”
Rogue’s expression was slightly aghast. “How did you… how did you know where that file was?”
He snorted and closed the file, tossing it back onto the desk. “Just because you don’t understand my system does not mean I am also ignorant. When is the dirty cheat due back?”
“Next week. He’s having a ball…” A ghost of a true smile appeared, and it alarmed Rafe slightly.
“Why do you look like that?” he asked warily, glancing out of the filthy window near him. “It’s only a ball, I don’t mind those.”
“It’s a very special occasion,” Rogue replied, his mouth curving. “Select members of Society only. And he’s promised his sister that her daughters may have full run of the bachelors in attendance, and invitation to the men of their choosing.”
Horrified, Rafe returned his head to his desk with a moan of despair, tugging at his limp and faded cravat. “Do you think that Lord Marlowe would make that very exclusive list?” he asked aloud, squeezing his eyes shut against the vain hope of denial.
“I think Lord Marlowe already has,” came the dry response.
He peered up at him suspiciously. “How do you know?”
Rogue rolled his eyes and went to the sideboard to pour himself a drink. “If you ever went to your own lodgings, Gent, you would know such things for yourself.”
Rafe frowned and gestured for Rogue to pour him a glass as well. “Why do you know the workings of my house?”
The sardonic look he received answered his own question.
“Ah,” he said knowingly with a nod. “Davis.”
“For a man in his position, with a master in his position,” Rogue muttered with a shake of his head, “that butler is not very good at his job. A servant is meant to keep his master’s secrets, not spread them about for gossip.”
Rafe smiled swiftly. “Davis keeps secrets better than anyone. Opinions, not so much. And you terrify him. I’m surprised he didn’t bear his soul in confession.”
Rogue shuddered visibly as he approached. “Lucky for me, I never venture to your house officially.”
“Yes, I’d hate for you to set the place awry with all your doom and gloom.”
Rogue stopped a few feet from him, holding his drink out of reach and raising a brow.
Rafe sighed and rolled his eyes. “Put off your affront and give that here. I need it to get through these damned financials, and now, apparently, a husband hunt.”
They both shuddered at that and Rogue handed over the drink. “Fair enough.” He glanced down at the stacks. “How is it going? Finding anything?”
Rafe sipped cautiously, having never been a truly strong drinker. “I’ve narrowed the list down to a dozen, but it’s not enough. I know at least half of the faction’s money is coming from England, and most of that from fairly high up. Daisy’s mark is a chief suspect, but as for the rest…” He shrugged and exhaled in frustration. “The trouble is most of this looks legitimate. I have a sense they may not be, but I can’t prove anything.” He glanced over at his colleague with a wince. “Financials and mathematics are not my strong suit. I was always more of a literature man.”
Rogue made an irritated noise and muttered something suspiciously like “You would,” under his breath. But his expression remained impassive, and he thought for a moment. “I know a man…” he said slowly.
“No,” Rafe said at once, shaking his head. “None of your seedy gambling associates. I’ll not let them run these through their grubby fingers.”
Rogue’s thick brows snapped down. “Says the man who gets his information from gypsies, pickpockets, urchins, and whores.”
“Actresses,” Rafe clarified with a faint finger in the air. “Tilda would be most put out to be reduced to such a level, considering all the effort she puts into those girls.”
Rogue raised his hands in mock surrender. “Far be it from me to offend Mistress Tilda.”
Rafe grinned slowly. “She would tear you limb from limb, my friend. And she’s a most useful contact. Just ask Trick or Tumbler. Or Thistle.”
“Really?” Rogue asked, sounding truly surprised, and no wonder, for the Foreign Office’s deep-seated operatives rarely used any of their connections if they could help it.
He shrugged and tried for a nonchalant air, but couldn’t hide the pride. “Unconfirmed, but…”
“Huh.” Rogue sat back, a bit bemused. Then suddenly it was gone. “At any rate, I didn’t mean to pass it off to one of my gamblers. I do have other connections, you know. Respectable ones.”
Rafe tilted his head in concern. “And they know you personally? Do they know what that could do to their reputations?” He laughed at his own jest, mirth bubbling up within him.
“I mean to take it to Coin, you damned toff.” He quirked a brow tauntingly when Rafe stopped chuckling at the suggestion. “Is that proper enough for you? Or is your pride too much to ask the man for his aid?”
“I forgot all about Coin,” he breathed. He grinned in relief. “Please, take them to him. He likes you more than me.”
“That’s because I let him win when we play,” Rogue said with a light shrug.
“You never let me win,” Rafe pointed out without the indignation he ought to have had.
Rogue smiled darkly. “That is because you are a terrible card player, and your ego needs some deflating.” He bowed politely, then ambled out of the room.
Rafe rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair, his eyes aimlessly tracing the faded moldings on the ceiling. Coin would help, the rascally old codger. He’d make Rafe look like an idiot with whatever he missed, but not on any official reports. He might be high-handed in person, but he was the consummate professional in all else.
And he was shockingly good at his job.
What exactly that job was, Rafe wasn’t exactly sure. Come to think of it, he didn’t think anyone knew for certain.
Such was the mystery of Coin.
He spent a few minutes organizing the files he wanted examined most, and then pulled out the aged pocket watch in his weskit pocket.
It was Tuesday. She tended to shop on Tuesdays, in Bond Street, mostly. But she’d likely be finished by now, and on her way back to her home with that mother of hers.
She was a very proper sort of woman, and had no doubt once been a beauty, but she could not hold a candle to what her daughter was, and would be for eternity.
He couldn’t leave the office to seek her out. Cap’s warning rang in his head, and he was fairly certain his own people were being set to tail him.
He needed a reason.
A good one.
Something that…
A slow, smirking grin suddenly lit his features, and he rose from his chair. “Foster!” he bellowed.
“Sir?” came the reply from whatever his name was in the front.
“Send a message to my valet. Tell him we’ve a ball in two weeks, and an impression to make.”
Swift footsteps came down the hall and the thin man looked rather unimpressed. “I’m not your errand boy, Gent.”
“I know that, Vincent,” he replied with a cheeky grin as he moved passed him. “But considering you do work here, you ought to do something to earn your keep.”
“What, besides letting your costumes gather dust over my head?” came the answer as he followed.
“Keeper of the costumes,” Rafe mused thoughtfully. “I like that. I’ll find a name that sticks for you yet.” He pulled his brown cap from the hook and perched it jauntily back, rolling his sleeves.
“I could tell you my real name,” he said, folding his arms. “That makes it quite simple.”
Rafe frowned at him as he moved to the door. “No names, Paul. We have rules.”
“And those say you’re not supposed to go out until you’re done.”
Rafe turned back, glowering. “Don’t make me name you Snitch,” he growled as he opened the door.
“And where are you going?” the snitch asked in hushed tones, given the open door.
Rafe turned and tipped his cap even more. “Tanks for the wages, guvnor,” he called in his street Cockney. “I’ll jus’ be stoppin’ into the market for a new coat, jus’ like ye said!”
And with a boyish skip and a whistle, the Gent was back on the streets, wondering if it might be a ten second day after all.