Chapter Five
One month. One whole blasted month and not a single moment with her.
He was going to go stark, raving mad.
He’d seen her, of course, and had done his part to make sure he was exactly where he should be at just the right moment, but she had never seen him. She was becoming a creature he did not recognize, and he was growing frantic. Where before she had looked fresh and clear and like the dawn now she was cool and pinched and pale, her dress was altered too much to the finery of the day, and her eyes held absolutely no expression to them. Worse than all of that, she no longer looked for him. She was as lifeless as any creature he had ever seen, yet she moved about in exactly the same way.
He knew the trouble lay with the bat that shadowed her, but surely that was not the only excuse. No one could hold that much power over a girl like Margaret.
Yet the proof was before him.
He’d be lying if he did not admit to thoughts and daydreams of storming the house and carrying her off, but he was a far more sensible creature than that.
Well, perhaps not far more, but just enough to avoid giving in to the impulse.
His work of late should have given him ample distraction, and yet…
It was hopeless. Not even the betrayal of the British upper class and the threat of Napoleonic sympathizers could scrub her out.
Rogue had given up. Rook laughed at him. Cap was bewildered. Even Eagle had come down to have words with him, though he’d seemed amused by it.
He wasn’t being neglectful in his work, he was just as efficient and accurate as he ever was. He was driven and active, thorough and focused, and his scouts were all very busy with leads and tips. All told, he was doing some of his best work.
But his heart wasn’t in it.
He prided himself on not setting his people to tail her or give him updates on her, though he’d been more than tempted by that. He wanted Margaret Easton to remain a secret even to himself. He wanted to discover things about her himself. He wanted…
Well, he wanted a great many things he had no business wanting.
He strolled up the street now, heedless of the people surrounding him, tucked away in his careful ensemble of a nobody. He looked like everyone and no one at the same time, which was his greatest strength. Most of the time it was because he wanted to blend in and accomplish whatever his task or mission was, whether it was saving a lady from a rambling carriage or rooting out a traitor. Now, however, he only wanted to be ignored.
It was ridiculous, really. A young woman he knew nothing about, by his own omissions, and had only built up in his mind as the epitome of all, and all he could truly say was that he had not looked into her eyes in over a month.
Even the most romantic of fools would call him pathetic.
He knew that.
But he didn’t mind being pathetic.
Not even the temptation of the Roma tribe on the outskirts of London seemed exciting, and he’d always had a way with the gypsies. He could have been one, for all anyone knew, though they’d never officially looked into it. He was all that remained of his family, and they’d been reserved and aloof for centuries. If someone had dallied with the Roma, it wouldn’t surprise him.
He could have been a Roma in spirit, if not by birth. Roaming from place to place, finding home wherever your heart was, living by the Earth instead of by the profits… He could have done quite well in that life.
Not now, of course. Duty, honor, loyalty, and service to the Crown were his life, not to mention his peerage duties, which he really did manage decently, if a bit absently. He ought to be seen in Parliament more, but considering his true duties, no one who knew the truth faulted him.
Come to think of it, there were only a very select few who actually knew the truth.
Everyone else just thought him one of the lazy lords of inherited titles and didn’t expect much of him.
And those who had no idea of his birth only knew him as the Gent.
Gent who saw everything, knew everything, heard everything, and was the godfather of London itself.
Or so he’d heard.
He was quite infamous in certain circles, for better or worse, respected or hated.
He wished that actually helped him here.
Why couldn’t Lord Marlowe take an interest in a young miss? He ought to have a bride, make some show of courtship, get on with his other duties; it would make perfect sense. Then he could call upon her and court her and…
He shook his head with a snort as he rounded a corner in Cheapside and slipped down a quiet lane.
No, Lord Marlowe wouldn’t be doing that. Not when she was under guard and he had very little to recommend him.
And there was no saying that she would want him, if she knew how he’d misled her by his appearance, no matter how unintentional the slight.
He heaved a sigh as he mounted the stairs to the shabby building he’d been going to far too often of late.
Hal was getting very peeved with him.
The door was opened before he knocked, which was typical, and the surly faced servant that was once a street fighter and thief let him in without a word, which was also typical.
“Good morning, Tad,” he greeted, smiling at the once-terrifying man.
The servant grunted. “Is it?” He turned without a bow or any sort of acknowledgement and disappeared down the dank corridor, leaving Rafe grinning behind him.
Tad didn’t care who or what he was, and that was the most delightful part of it.
He made his way up the poky, narrow steps and avoided the creaky one near the top. “Hal!” he called jauntily, feeling a little uplifted just from being here. “Hal!”
He had no response, but he really hadn’t expected one.
Hal’s office was at the end of the hall, and he knocked twice, then pushed the door open without waiting for an answer. The “office” was really a library that had been made over into a workspace, and it looked as though a dervish had come through, as it usually did. Books and parchment were strewn all over the place, and easels were everywhere with drawings and paintings and sketches in various states of completion.
Hal was a method worker, and no one understood her method.
He doubted Hal understood either.
“Hal!” he called, looking around.
A blond head poked out from a wingback chair by the fire and spectacles glinted in the morning light from the windows. “What, Gent? For heaven’s sake, I’m not deaf.”
He grinned and stepped around the mess to approach. “No, you’re not. But it’s fun to pretend.”
Hal scoffed and rose, dusting off a book and turning to face him. “What do you want? I’m not done with your maps, and you’ve already got your sketches from the card party. Don’t tell me you’ve found more people…”
Rafe shook his head and shrugged. “No new ones, still working on the old. Can’t seem to get a fix on those two men from Grimshaw’s though.”
Hal raised a brow at him. “You are having trouble with identification? You?”
Again, he shrugged. “I don’t know everything.”
“I’ve been telling you that for years.”
Rafe snorted and grinned at the best sketch artist he had ever met in his years of work. “Yes, well, you’ve got a bit of attitude, Hal, and say all sorts of things you shouldn’t.”
That caused a smirk and the spectacles came down from their perch as Hal folded them together. “True. What can I do for you? Is there something wrong with the sketches?”
Rafe sighed and sank into a nearby chair without invitation. “I don’t know, Hal. It’s that older man, the one I only glimpsed at the ball. His features keep changing in my mind, and brilliant as you are, I’m not sure the sketch is right.”
Hal frowned and sat back down, hands folded. “You didn’t see him at the card party?”
Rafe shook his head. “No, I’ve never seen him again, I’m sure of it. I purloined the list of people invited to Grimshaw’s, but so many names are missing in general that it is impossible to identify him.”
He glanced over at the girl beside him, spectacles still in her charcoal tinted fingers, looking at him with a furrowed brow. “Hmm. Well, let me pull out my versions of the sketches and we’ll try again.” She moved to a nearby desk with neatly stacked portfolios and pulled from the middle, then came back over, handing it to him.
He looked up in surprise. “You don’t want to look?”
She shook her head at once, blond curls dancing wildly in their coif. “No, I don’t want to be biased. So.” She pulled out a pencil and a clean sheet, and looked at him expectantly. “Tell me again what he looks like, and take your time.”
As he had done so often before, he recited everything he could remember, right down to the flapping jowls and flushed complexion. It wasn’t the same as the first description he gave, but he suspected this man might be more like him than was comfortable.
Everyone and no one all at once.
And then something else popped up, something he’d forgotten in all of the fuss. “And he’s got a pox scar above his left eyebrow! It’s faint, but it’s there.”
Hal looked up with a half smile. “Really?”
He nodded proudly, then frowned at her dubious look. “What?”
She snorted softly and went back to her sketch, fingers flying across the page. “Long face, sagging skin, rotund in frame, beady eyes, high brow, fading hairline, and a pox scar? Gent…” She held up the paper and smiled a little. “I do believe you are speaking of Sir Vincent Castleton.”
Rafe stared at the picture wide-eyed, heart pounding. A name! But… “He’s not been in London for decades, are you sure?”
Hal handed him the page and sat back, hands gripping the armrest. “I am. My family estate neighbored his in Sussex, and I could tell you some very intriguing stories about him.”
Rafe sat back and smiled at her warmly. “My dear Hal, I had no idea you were a storyteller. Do please go on, I have all day.”
She smiled, her chin dipping a little in pleasure. “For starters, he hates his name, and in his inner circles goes by his second name, Tobias.”
Rafe stilled, his fingers tightening on the page. Tobias. That was it! He allowed himself a slow, predatory grin at the girl, somehow elfin in feature and statuesque in build, and at the moment, his favorite person on earth. “By Jove, Hal, you are a phenomenal woman. Why haven’t I asked you to marry me yet?”
She threw her head back and laughed a throaty sort of laugh. “Because I like Rogue better than you, and you’re too pretty. Now, do you want to hear the real stories or not?”
Margaret put a hand to her brow and tried not to look miserable.
It was a herculean effort.
Why would anyone ask Lady Darlington to sing? The former Fanny Harville was the most horrific vocalist she had ever heard, and she’d endured Charlotte Truman for three Seasons.
But then, no one had ever said Miranda Ascott was an intelligent hostess. And from the looks of things, no one had taken the care to warn her of the dangers of Lady Darlington’s voice.
Margaret winced as the lady in question attempted a note far out of her range. The desperate Lord Darlington had snatched up the only lady he could convince to have him, the equally desperate Miss Harville, and all of London had breathed a sigh of relief when they had married at the end of last Season.
Now they would not breathe so easily.
She glanced over and saw the tightness in Rosalind’s features as she tried to maintain politeness, and the mirrored expression on her sister, Mrs. Granger. In fact, looking around, everyone looked that pained. Why, Lady Whitlock looked as though she were going to scream, and she was the most polite and composed lady in London.
She bit back a smile when she saw Lady Raeburn’s expression. The eccentric woman, currently wrapped in plum silk and a matching turban, was wide eyed and tight about the mouth, and as she watched, she saw something twitch in her face.
As if she could sense when she was observed, Lady Raeburn met her gaze and blinked owlishly at her.
Margaret offered the smallest of smiles, fighting the urge to laugh.
Impossibly, Lady Raeburn’s mouth quirked up slightly and she inclined her head a little.
A soft throat clearing beside her brought Margaret back around. Miss Ritson, her now almost constant companion, raised a scolding brow and shook her head slightly.
Margaret acknowledged the reprimand with a dip of her chin and applauded with the rest when Lady Darlington finished, and joined the rest in frantically looking around for another guest to avoid the horrors of an encore.
Blessedly, Mrs. Ascott rose and dismissed them all for refreshment, looking haggard now despite her overdone finery, which was designed to look simplistic, but fell short.
Margaret went to rise, but Miss Ritson clamped a hand on her arm. “Wait,” she hissed beneath a polite smile. “Let the others rise, let them come to you.”
That was a laughable thought.
“They don’t come to me,” she murmured back, smiling and nodding at Lady Blackmoor and her husband, who were fleeing with remarkable speed.
The hold on her arm clenched. “Just. Wait.”
And so it had gone for the last five weeks. Everything Margaret did was wrong, no matter what her new tutors said. They all agreed she was accomplished and proficient in her endeavors, and saw no reason to be employed for her. But as the funds were coming from her parents and at Miss Ritson’s discretion, there was nothing to be done about it.
Days upon endless days of correction and reprimand, social events that did very little to entertain or amuse her, and calls being paid and received to some of the most boring people she had ever met in her entire life. And she’d spent years in the company of her parents’ European friends on the Continent. Miss Ritson rarely listened to her, and only did so if it involved her cousin, who had been Margaret’s saving grace in all of this.
Helen had come to far more events than Margaret would have expected, always to ensure that it was not as horrible as Margaret feared. Rosalind, on the other hand, had apparently become the least favorite of all her associates in Miss Ritson’s opinion, though why, she had no idea.
When she’d asked, Miss Ritson had only said that no one would look at Margaret if Rosalind were about, and she could not bear the competition for her.
That might have been a true statement, but Rosalind was also her key to attending the events that might actually prove fruitful to her. These parties and teas and carriage rides in Hyde Park were suffocating her, as they were starved for men with any sort of personality, or within a decade of her age, or that even remotely piqued her interest. All of the women she associated with, Helen aside, were remarkably plain, poor, or old. Or all of the above.
Was this what other girls had to deal with when the parents were not so lenient as hers? Or if their situations were truly desperate? The endless comparisons, the opportunistic ventures, ensuring attendance to events that would make her the most eligible woman there…
It was disgraceful and embarrassing.
She was ashamed of herself, and none of the plan was hers.
Would it really have been so bad to marry for comfort alone? This wasn’t worth it, truly. Her heart could endure, so long as England was home.
Or… was the suffering so great that she would rather marry a European that might actually prove interesting and worthwhile?
No, she thought viciously. She’d had enough of that life, and she was set on England.
England was home.
“Margaret, will you take a turn about the room with me?” Helen asked from her side, having somehow approached her without Margaret noticing.
Miss Ritson stiffened beside her, but said nothing.
“I know that Lady Raeburn wishes to make your acquaintance,” Helen continued, her voice as smooth as silk, as polite as was proper. “And once you meet her, I believe you will find several other people who will wish to do the same.”
Margaret glanced up at her cousin, the very picture of an English miss, thin and fair and every feature perfectly situated. Miss Ritson ought to have hated her, but as the Daltons were not as wealthy as the Eastons, she was no competition. Apparently.
Miss Ritson nudged Margaret hard. “Go, Miss Easton,” she urged, her eyes alight. “Your cousin is being very kind, and very astute. Go and meet those who can give you fairer prospects than your own dismal situation.”
“Yes, Miss Ritson.” Margaret rose as gracefully as she could and linked arms with her cousin, who led her away serenely.
“Lord, Margaret,” Helen murmured when they were away, losing the polite air and speaking more like herself. “What has Rickety done to you?”
Margaret allowed herself to sigh and avoided looking behind her. “I cannot breathe,” she replied in a low voice. “Everything is wrong, and if she sets my corsets any tighter…”
“She’s making you wear corsets?” Helen interrupted quickly, eyes wide.
Margaret nodded morosely. “And restricting my food, and forcing me to walk Hyde Park every morning and evening… I had not thought myself quite so beyond a fashionable figure, but it seems to be the case.”
Helen hissed between her teeth and pulled Margaret closer. “You are not even plump, darling. And even if you were, what is so very wrong with that? For heaven’s sake, it is as though she thinks you the worst possible marriage candidate in London, which I know for a fact you are not.”
Margaret sniffed in derision and nodded at Mrs. Granger, who smiled kindly. “Do you? How?”
Helen smiled and inclined her head towards a small gathering of men that were watching them. “The attention, dear. They aren’t watching me, they know better. That is for you.”
She glanced over and found one of them smiling at her. Encouraged, she allowed herself to smile in return, which made his smile grow.
“I’ll never be able to make it over there,” she whispered to Helen. “Miss Ritson would never…”
“Miss Ritson can eat my slippers,” Helen snapped. “We’re going to meet Lady Raeburn and Rosalind will speak with Captain Riverton, who will bring them over, it’s all arranged. It is time you met some real prospects and not their portly uncles.”
Margaret snorted a laugh and felt the tension leave her. Helen could always set her to rights, and whatever time she could spend away from Miss Ritson would be a blessing.
Rosalind swept to Helen’s other side, knowing from experience that if she was too familiar with Margaret, Miss Ritson would intervene.
Truly, things were getting ridiculous.
Lady Raeburn was surrounded by admirers, as usual, including their hostess, and they all looked at the trio as they approached.
“Lady Raeburn,” Helen began with a warm smile, “may I introduce my cousin, Miss Easton? Margaret, this is Lady Raeburn.”
“A pleasure, my lady,” Margaret said with a deep curtsey.
Lady Raeburn’s painted lips quirked and she inclined her head regally. “Charming, Miss Easton. What a lovely picture you make. Tell me, do you really hunt for a husband just to keep yourself in England while your parents try for Europe?”
Someone nearby gasped, and Margaret felt her cheeks flush, but something within her prompted her to stare boldly back at this terrifying woman. “Yes, my lady,” she answered as calmly as she could.
Lady Raeburn shook her head, the decorative beads of her turban clapping against the fabric. “European men make excellent lovers, but abysmal husbands. I should know, I’ve had my share of both.”
Someone coughed in surprise, but Margaret found herself smiling in spite of herself. “So what would you suggest, my lady?”
Lady Raeburn’s eyes twinkled as she took in Margaret on the whole. “Find a British husband who can play the European lover,” she finally replied, smiling slyly. “Best of both worlds, and nobody is shocked by it.”
Margaret nodded sagely, fighting the urge to laugh. “I shall take that into advisement, my lady. Have you any suggestions for going about that?”
Now the company about them were beginning to warm to it, laughing softly and grinning at the exchange, but none so broadly as Lady Raeburn herself.
“Oh, my dear child,” Lady Raeburn said as she smiled, “have I ever.” She quirked her fingers and Captain Riverton, with the three men watching from before, sprang over to them, as well as a few others.
Feeling as though she had sold her soul somehow, Margaret greeted them all as they were introduced and smiled prettily, hoping no one would notice it was forced.
A British husband who could play the European lover. Well, there was one man she could picture in that role, but it was hardly suitable.
She had seen him every day, but had not been permitted to stare. Miss Ritson was like a hawk, and she’d never even had a five second moment with him, let alone ten. But she saw him, and fervently wished he would see her. She knew that if they could have their usual moment, he would see her distress and save her somehow. She knew that as well as she drew breath. He would save her, regardless of whether she could have him, and she could find a way to stay in England that satisfied her.
But if he never saw what was in her eyes, he couldn’t know.
He couldn’t save her.
How could a stranger, no matter how handsome, mean so much to her? She was a sensible girl, despite her imagination, and there was no reason for her to think him anything but a scoundrel and a roué.
Suddenly neither of those things seemed so much of a detriment.
Whoever he was, whatever he was, she missed him. She didn’t even know him and she missed him. She still saw him everywhere and she missed him.
Her life was changing far too rapidly for her taste, and he was all that she could hold onto. He kept her steady, and despite the new reserve and hauteur forced on her by her chaperone, she would never be fully changed, not while the image of him was within her heart.
It was not good for her to think of him, she knew that, but her situation was so dismal she had to hold onto something. Her parents’ letters held nothing but praise for Miss Ritson, which meant that her letters were not understood. Or perhaps they were misdirected. Whichever it was, she was running out of time and options, and her wistful imaginations, though delightful, were making things harder to accept. He could not be the bright shining hope of her life, even if he were as glorious in person as she imagined. However unlikely that was. He was sure to disappoint, if she ever did know him.
She smiled at the men around her, and prayed that one of them might be the one to save her, and make her forget him. She wanted so desperately to forget him, to be rid of him, to pretend they had never made eye contact at all. She would have been so much happier in ignorance.
But she doubted that was possible.
More than that, she knew she was lying.