For years, he had carried a special walking cane, adapted to contain sprung blade and poison, and never, not once, had it left his side. He’d even had the tailor sew a special loop on his breeches and greatcoat to secure it.
Scowling, he quaffed his ale. It was allherfault.
And it wasn’t even as if he could now avoid her, as the capricious saucebox had sent a violet-scented note saying she had the “stick”, and he could collect it at Mrs Beckford’s musical soirée on Monday evening.
Lady Gibbon, it seemed, wasn’t the only one with a taste for blackmail – as if he’d normally attend an event on Conduit Street; he had a reputation to uphold.
A couple of men glanced his way, but he curled a lip and their eyes hastily shifted direction.
If only that worked on Aideen Quinlan.
He recalled her softness behind that damned screen. Hellfire, he could have simply put a hand over her mouth to halt the giggles, but no, he’d thought of a superior way.
Fool.
Consequently, he’d have to anticipate some scathing insults for the soirée. Something to raise her indignation, to cause a slap, to make her despise the very sight of him…
It had always worked on chits before but in this instance, it disheartened him. He enjoyed too much Miss Quinlan’s pert words, her sparkling black eyes, those cherry lips…
“There you are, sulking in the corner.”
Glancing up, he snorted. “I said appropriate attire and you choose a red waistcoat.”
The Marquess of Winterbourne frowned, fingering the silk and plonking himself on the bench opposite. “Au contraire, Rakehell. This natty colour is coquelicot, and I’ll have you know these togs are all the crack for flashy arch rogues of Rum-ville. I’ll blend in like a virgin at Almack’s.”
Rakecombe eyed the poppy waistcoat and doubted it would make it out of St Giles. He’d deal with the abomination of his title later. “We will wander the Rookery and meet with some of my contacts, but I also have the name of a house in Bainbridge Street that Penbury was frequenting. I am unsure of its…use but we’ll find out soon enough.”
Indeed, Lady Gibbon’s blackmail notes had held little value except for that snippet.
“What about Stafford? Have you been able to establish his whereabouts?” asked Winterbourne, who without so much as a twitch of the hand or nod of the head received a jug of ale and a wink from the pretty barmaid.
“He has vanished as though a ghost, but from all accounts the fellow is forthright yet trustworthy. His forte, however, is infiltration of Bonapartist factions so I presume he’s a canny sort.”
Pulling on his black leather gloves, Rakecombe noted the squashed faces of two bare-knuckle combatants head to a back room. The alehouse’s nickname of Bucket of Blood wasn’t for nothing, but he hoped the crooked-nosed one remained standing; he’d wagered five pounds on him.
“We had better not go by titles this evening,” he commanded Winterbourne. “You may call me, for one solitary night, Alex.”
“Good Lord! You have a given name?” The rogue fell back, hand to brow. “I considered you born into this world a Rakecombe. Popped out with tight cravat and cane, gurgling your displeasure.”
“Amusing…Jack.”
“I know, but one doesn’t like to sound one’s own trumpet. Well,” he said, straightening the red silk monstrosity adorning his chest and draining his ale, “let us rush in where angels fear to tread. I have a feeling amusement will quickly wane in St Giles.”
Jack was correct.
They cut down a side alley signed, coincidently, Angel Street – a misnomer if ever he had heard one, both for its occupants and themselves.
It constantly amazed him how one could be standing amongst the glittering houses of the ton one moment, and then, with a sideways step in the wrong direction, be walking amongst dwellings exuding filth and poverty.
The contrast was stark. Elegant London squares gave way to putrid lanes; gleaming shops became flash houses; light ebbed in the narrow alleyways; and drabs cried their wares, every sin available.
And yet despite the miasma of danger, people went about their everyday lives. Washerwomen gabbled over wet linen, grubby ragamuffins played marbles on the steps of an orphanage, and a toothy old crone sold cloth from a wagon – probably the fate of Winterbourne’s waistcoat.
In silence, they continued onto Long Acre, and avoiding Seven Dials, he conducted Jack via King Street, purposely taking him beyond their destination and further down Dyott Street where Rakecombe paused.
Wishing his cane wasn’t in Miss Quinlan’s possession, he instead stabbed out a leather-clad finger. “That abode with the red curtains is theCharity Hospital which you paid to have refurbished after the brewery flood.”
Jack startled, gazing up at a drab building with a spotless entrance. “What? I don’t–”
