Dark Regency: The Redemption Of A Rogue Part 9

"Completely confident... I honestly believe his avoidance is in deference to her tender feelings... He would not feel right about leading her on. But if there's more to it-I'll speak to him."

Spencer's head ached as he climbed into his carriage. He'd stayed behind, talking with Rhys, allowing the brandy he'd imbibed after dinner to catch up with him. The only thing worse than waking up with a hangover was going to bed with one. Perhaps it was his physical misery that distracted him and that left him unaware.

"Good evening, my lord."

The small voice was achingly familiar to him. He tapped on the roof of the vehicle. "Hold, Smithers! Our departure has been temporarily delayed."

"Yes, m'lord," came the coachman's m.u.f.fled reply.

Spencer turned up the wick of the interior lamp, ignoring the pain in his head from the light. He wanted his stowaway to bear full witness to his disapproval. "What the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l are you thinking to climb into a man's carriage in the dark of night?"

Larissa shrugged, the movement sending the hood of her cloak falling backward. In the dim light of the carriage, her skin was like alabaster. "I needed to speak with you privately."

Spencer wanted to shake her, which in of itself told him he needed to be as far from her presence as possible. No woman, in all his years, had tugged at his temper the way this slip of a girl did. "Young women of quality do not speak with gentlemen privately! It simply isn't done!"

"As my reputation is already in tatters, it hardly signifies," she reminded him, her voice sharpening. "It's important, Spencer or I wouldn't importune you this way. Surely you know that?"

He did know. Still, it was difficult enough to face her across a room full of people who would gladly slaughter him if he acted on even one of the fantasies he had of her. It was far different to be in a small enclosed s.p.a.ce, with only the dim light of a lamp and not a soul to protest if he were to kiss her. Or more. "The have on with it," he said grudgingly.

"Michael is in grave danger. You mustn't let him out of your sight."

"He's a newly married man, Larissa. I doubt he'll welcome my presence."

She might have blushed. In the darkness, it was hard to know, but imagining it did little for his own discomfort. When she spoke, her voice was slightly breathless, which only further fueled his fantasies.

"Spencer, I'm quite serious. Tomorrow, you must beware the black coach."

"Its London, love," he said, the endearment slipping out, catching them both unawares. He continued, acting as if the small breach meant nothing. "There are too many black coaches to be wary of them all!"

She shook her head. "You'll know this one when you see it. It's out of place where you'll be... and they mean to kill him, Spencer."

"Rupert and Lavinia?"

"Not Lavinia," she said. "I only see a man who I a.s.sume is Lord Whitby... but I can't be sure. His face is unclear to me."

"Obscured?"

"No," she said. "It's simply not there. Like a carnival mask that hasn't been painted."

Spencer ignored the chill her words created. "You need to return to the house before you are missed... I'll look out for him. I promise."

Larissa rose from the bench and moved toward the carriage door, she stumbled and Spencer caught her, his arms sliding about her to steady her. It was an intimate pose, far more intimate than she was ready for. He felt her body stiffen, felt her withdraw from him.

"I would never hurt you," he whispered.

"No. But it hurts you... when I cringe, or when I am frozen in fear, it wounds you deeply and for that I am sorry."

He said nothing else, for she'd fled into the night, back to the solace of her lonely bed. He would be going to his own and it would offer no consolation at all. Easing back into the seat, he wrapped once more on the roof of the coach.

"Onward, Smithers!"

Chapter Twelve.

The next morning found Abbi and Michael in the Bond Street shop of Mademoiselle Beauchamps. Swaths of fabric had been draped over her and an endless stream of fashion plates had been paraded in front of her. Dresses had been ordered for every possible event, activity and time of day.

Michael had insisted that everything be in vibrant shades, without a pastel in sight. He'd also taken a far too active role in selecting her under things. Her stays and chemises were no longer serviceable cotton but were of heavily embroidered silks and satins. Silk stockings and garters festooned with tiny bows and rosettes also accompanied them. Petticoats were provided that were so sheer, she might as well have been naked.

Abbi had blushed furiously when he'd ordered peignoirs in black, silk chiffon. Madame had asked him if he wished to have them lined for modesty and he had declined, stating adamantly the modesty had no place in the bedchamber. She had chuckled at him, called him a naughty boy and had winked at Abbi most inappropriately.

After being measured to within an inch of her life, they left the shop with the promise of several ready-made dresses being altered to fit and sent over that afternoon. Several more would follow during the rest of the week and beyond. Trips to the milliner, the cobbler, and the glove maker followed.

"It's too much," Abbi said after Michael had handed her up into the carriage for the short drive home.

"No, it isn't. How long has it been since you've had new gowns?" he asked.

Abbi sighed, "It's been years as you well know. That doesn't change the fact that the amount of money spent today is enough to feed the village of Blagdon for a year."

More than likely two years, but he didn't bother to correct her. He had expected protests from her and had prepared an argument. "Regardless, your social station has changed and your wardrobe must reflect it. If it does not, it will reflect poorly on me."

Abbi knew that was true. "London may well be your life, my lord, but I am not sure that it can be mine. The city is not for me, I fear. I will make a total cake of myself and be a social outcast. If that happens, it will benefit us both for me to return to the country."

"You will not be a social outcast. But whether you are or not, has no bearing on the fact that you and I will be together. In London, in the country, or anywhere else, as husband and wife we will not live apart."

"For a man who has inhabited the beds of countless married ladies, that is not the tack I expected from you regarding our own marriage."

Michael leaned forward on the carriage seat, resting his elbows on his knees as he met her gaze, "I've done a great many things in my life that I am not proud of. Yes, I've had relationships with married women. Perhaps it makes no difference in my level of innocence or guilt, but I never sought them out. Generally if a wife was straying, I was not the first with whom she had done so."

"And Lady Westerbrook?"

He had known that it was coming, and there was only so much he could reveal for the secret was Caroline's. "Caroline was a friend for many years. While she was married, it was never more than that. After Charles' death, she asked me to become her lover and I did. My feelings for her were never more than friendship."

"Do you bed all of your friends?" she asked, with pointed emphasis on the last word.

"Many female friends were also lovers. It is different for a man, Abbigail. We do not need deeper feelings to engage in a physical relationship. It is that way for some women, but most require more than that."

The question burned in her of whether or not he intended to take other lovers now. Pride would not allow her to ask it. As the carriage rolled to a stop before the townhouse, he sighed and said, "We can talk more about this later, but for now I have to go. Rhys and I are to meet with several of the dealers today to ferret out whatever Rupert and Lavinia are up to."

"Of course."

Michael helped her down, saw her to the door and with a perfunctory kiss on her cheek, left on foot. Many of the people he wished to speak with were in less than decent neighborhoods. Taking a fine carriage was an invitation for trouble that he did not need. He had arranged to meet with Rhys at the first shop, on the edge of Seven Dials.

The address was a case of misdirection. At the head of a street lined with rookeries, brothels, and opium dens, the tiny shop looked like little more than a place for people to p.a.w.n their cast offs. But the backroom told a different tale. The wares were priceless and the proprietor was a key player in the criminal underground of London.

When he arrived at the shop, alighting from the hackney he'd hailed near his home, Rhys was already waiting for him, with Spencer by his side.

The shop was closed, the sign hanging on the door that was still slightly ajar. Michael spared a questioning glance at it and then turned his attention to his oldest friend, "Have you been inside then?"

Rhys shook his head grimly. "No. It looked like trouble, so I've stayed here in full view of the pie seller. I don't relish the idea of being the accused again, and Spencer only just arrived."

Michael didn't laugh at the gallows humor. Rhys had been under suspicion of having murdered his first wife for years. Spencer, however, was above reproach. "I don't imagine we'll find anything good inside, but let's get it over with, shall we?"

The men entered the shop, scanning the room for danger. It had obviously been searched and by someone who didn't care if things were destroyed in the process, as many of the displays had been hopelessly smashed. Michael knew, of course that the truly priceless items would be hidden away in the back. He only feared what else they might find.

Together they moved through the room, and towards the heavy curtain. Behind the curtain was a locked door, which Michael expertly opened. When the lock clicked free, they entered the storage room which was filled, shelf after shelf, with priceless antiquities.

It was also filled with the coppery stench of blood and none too fresh if Michael had to guess. The store's proprietor, Raymond Jacobs, was lying between two shelves, at least one day dead from the look of him. A pool of blood had spread around him, his skull all but crushed. It was just like Allerton, Michael thought.

"Poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d," Spencer said. "h.e.l.l of a thing to lay dead and not even be missed."

Michael agreed. "We should summon the watch."

"I'll take care of it," Rhys said and stepped outside.

"So what are we looking for, Ellersleigh?" Spencer asked. His voice was cold and a bit gruff, but Michael had long since grown used to Spencer's disapproval.

"Ledgers, bills of sale, anything that ties this man to Lord or Lady Whitby... or Lord Allerton, for that matter."

Spencer snorted, "Leave it you to fall in with them. For the love of G.o.d, Michael! They are all half insane!"

Michael closed his eyes and just for a brief moment, considered planting him the facer that he deserved for being such an arrogant prig. "I didn't fall in with them, Spencer. Unfortunately, my new wife happens to be the younger stepsister of Lady Lavinia."

"You didn't just fall in with them! You married into them!"

Michael paused in the act of searching the desk that had been the deceased proprietor's, "Spencer, if you ever think to compare my wife to Lady Lavinia again, I will call you out. You may insult me as much as you wish, but you will never speak of Abbigail so."

The steel in Michael's voice was not something Spencer was accustomed to. He looked up and met his friend's hard gaze and realized that there was far more to the rumors of Michael's marriage than he'd imagined. "So that's the way of it, then. You're b.l.o.o.d.y well in love with her."

"I am not in love with anyone, Spencer, but she is my wife," Michael said. The denial was too hot on his lips, too quick, and even more telling for it. Falling in love with Abbigail was a complication he could ill afford. He never intended to fall in love with anyone again. It was too painful.

They continued searching. When the bell over the front door tinkled a warning Michael and Spencer both tucked the papers of interest that they had acc.u.mulated in their pockets. The Watch gave a perfunctory exam of the scene, labeled it a robbery gone wrong and summoned a wagon to remove the body. He escorted them from the premises and placed a lock and chain on the door. It was of no consequence. If they needed to return, Michael could pick any lock and they would be unlikely to use the front door at any rate.

Outside in the street, they hailed a handsome cab. As they were climbing into the cab, another coach rumbled toward them. The conveyance, sleek and black, it obviously did not belong in the neighborhood. The pair of matched grays that pulled it were fast, and traveling at a speed that was ill advised on such narrow, congested streets. As it lurched forward it picked up speed, though it had already been moving faster than was wise on such narrow streets. As it neared them, the driver jerked the reins and the horses pulled to the left, the vehicle shifting ominously as it careened toward them.

Michael looked up at the panicked whinnying of the horses, in time to see the carriage barreling straight for him. His death was certain at that moment. Staring at that coach, little more than a meter from him, he thought of Abbigail.

But death did not take him. Instead, a pair of strong hands hauled him back and the coach thundered past with only inches to spare. Had Spencer not acted so quickly, dragging Michael back from the cab, he would have been trampled under the horses' hooves. As it was, they wound up in the gutter covered in all manner of filth.

Rising to his feet, Michael held out a hand to Spencer, helping the other man up. It was an uneasy truce between them, but there was no denying that he now owed his friend his life.

"That was not an accident," Rhys said. He had already climbed into the hackney, but disembarked. The driver was refusing to transport them now and left little doubt as to his opinions of letting two muck covered lords defile his fine carriage.

Spencer nodded, his dazed expression stating his agreement more fully. "Beware the black coach," he said.

Michael nodded, and offered the driver of their hired hack a gesture that was more suited to their current surroundings than to his Mayfair roots.The driver uttered a mild oath and the hackney lumbered forward. They would be walking home.

To Rhys, Michael added, "It most definitely was not...Let's not mention this to Abbi."

"Or Emme," Rhys agreed "Or Larissa."

Spencer shook his head. "She'll know anyway. You won't need to mention it, but I doubt she'll say anything. The only one who worries more about your wife than you do is her sister."

As the carriage sped away, Rupert cursed. It hadn't been his intent to put a permanent end to Ellersleigh, but when the opportunity had presented itself, he couldn't allow it to pa.s.s. After discovering the merchant's body, he'd beat a hasty retreat, but not swift enough. Seeing Ellersleigh and his cronies enter the shop had been a shock to say the least.

Running him down the carriage had been an impulse, poorly thought out and even more poorly executed.

It was for the best, Rupert told himself. It would have raised questions he didn't want asked. He consoled himself with the thought that little of import could have been found in the shop. The merchant had kept very discreet records given the erotic and occult nature of many of the items he sold.

Deciding to keep the incident to himself, he headed towards his townhouse. He would collect his things and head for Whitby Hall immediately. Given Lavinia's infatuation with the Viscount, the less she knew about the events of the day, the better.

Rhys and Michael returned to the townhouse so that Michael could exchange his ruined clothing. Spencer had gone to his own home for the same and planned to meet them shortly. Abbi was touring the house with Ms. Fillings, the housekeeper, learning about the day to day running of the household and reviewing household accounts.

Michael was glad of it, as he wanted an opportunity to review the doc.u.ments with Rhys and Spencer prior to discussing their findings with her. She was too much a part of things already and he feared that knowledge could make her even more of a target.

Rhys was awaiting him in the library, and by the time Michael had rung for brandy and a bit of food to hold them over, Spencer had arrived.

"So what, precisely, are we looking for?" Spencer asked, producing the doc.u.ments he had liberated from the shop. It was very similar to what they had done during the war. They had often been tapped to complete clandestine missions. Not spies exactly, they had still been trusted with covert operations.

Michael ran his hand through his hair, frustrated by just how little he actually knew. It was all supposition at that point, and he didn't like it. "I don't think Allerton lost Blagdon Hall to me by accident. I think that Lord and Lady Whitby forced him to do so. They wanted me there for some reason, and I can only imagine it has a great deal to do with my father's collection of antiques."

"And Abbigail?" Rhys asked.

Michael's jaw clenched as he answered, his anger telling. "Rupert has had designs on her for some time. In removing her from the sanctuary of Blagdon Hall, he was providing greater opportunity to compromise her."

Spencer nodded, then surmised, "So they were killing two birds with one stone. They compelled Allerton to lose Blagdon Hall to you to get you within their clutches. Given your reputation, they had to a.s.sume that you would be eager to partake of whatever entertainments they were offering."

"Yes," Michael agreed, "Lavinia attempted to seduce me the first evening that they invited me to Whitby House. That was also the evening Allerton was murdered in the garden, in much the same way our shopkeeper was just murdered."

"And the evening that you took Abbi back to Blagdon Hall rather than leave her under the Whitby's roof for another night," Rhys added. "The real question is what are they after? What in your father's collection are they after?"

Michael indicated the doc.u.ments spread before them, "The ledgers at Whitby Hall gave only the amount of the purchase, but did not identify the items. If I can discover what they acquired, then perhaps I can narrow down what they want from me."

Spencer began to peruse one of the ledgers while Michael rifled through the bills of sale. There was nothing that directly identified them, but one receipt had been inscribed in a corner with the initials "L.W.".

"There is nothing in the ledger but prices and item numbers," Spencer said.

"Match the item number from this receipt to the ledger, and we might have something," Michael said, pa.s.sing the doc.u.ment over.