CHAPTER NINETEEN
“What is lightning? What is thunder?”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.
“Now, listen to me,” stated Hugh as the hackney carriage trundled along Pall Mall. “I’ll deal with this, Amelia. The fellow can be a little…irritable.” He tapped his lip with the brass top of his cane. “In truth, it would be best if you stayed in the carriage.”
Inactualtruth, Hugh didn’t wish Amelia anywhere near this gambling hell owner known as the Prince, for despite his curt manner, scarred cheek and caliginous demeanour, women in his presence seemed to swoon to earth like geese at nightfall.
Not that the Prince seemed to notice.
And not that Hugh would be jealous.
But Amelia nodded so all was fine.
That drab snuff-coloured rag of a frock clothed her and he imagined her in green silk, roses in her hair and emeralds encircling her neck.
“How well do you know him?” she enquired, staring out the window as dusk fell, a dank drizzle misting the windows.
Hugh would have preferred to meet within daylight hours and had sent a note to the Prince suggesting just that. The reply had been somewhat curt – a slashed cross with the hour of seven scrawled over it – and if he’d not been mistaken, the seal had been daubed with blood.
Rather theatrical.
“We’ve had a few dealings. Alas, I already owe him a favour.”
Her head curved to him and in the dim light, he could see her lips thin. “I’ve heard you should never be in debt to the Prince. It’s rumoured his heart is blacker than Satan’s boots. That he rules half of London Town and knows all theTon’s darkest secrets. That even Beelzebub himself fears him when midnight looms and–”
“Yes, yes, I’m well aware of all that. But it was for my ducal cousin in Wales. I asked the Prince if he could call in a debt to which he was…amenable.”
“In return for a future favour from you?”
“Yes.”
He thought to see a fleet smile cross her lips.
Shuffling in his new boots, Hugh folded his arms, his emotions and desires for Miss Amelia Lambert rather disconcerting. He yearned for her in ways he’d never felt before yet…he was utterly unsure of her feelings towards him.
Oh, she’d allowed his kiss but Amelia was adept at hiding her true feelings, her true self, and although he was fairly certain she enjoyed their banter, had gawked at his nude chest, the question remained – and this was rather galling for the Scandalous Hugh Cadwalader to have to ask but – did she like him?
“How on earth,” she began, “do you think the Brotherhood of Ravens discovered you were an infiltrator?”
He shook his head. No time for moonstruck musings. “I’d say it was that note Roberts received. But who was it from? I’d told no one at the Home Office I was going.” Rubbed his chin. “Perhaps they investigated the Lieutenant Davies I was pretending to be and found him to be false.”
“It’s odd. It feels as though someone has eyes everywhere.”
“I agree.” Her complexion glowed in the hackney carriage’s single lantern. “Your crone garb was…inspired.”
“I’ve used it several times but the aroma can linger.”
Hugh decided to live up to his scandalous moniker and vault from his seat, swivel in mid-air, land on the cushion beside her and bring his nose to her neck. “No fragrance of vermin. Just rose, and the merest hint of gunpowder.”
She cleared her throat. Surely a sign of flusterment in his presence. Good.
“Drat,” she murmured, “I’ll have to wash my hair again.”
“Not on my account,” he murmured back. “I adore the combined deadly bouquet.”
