Page 36 of A Perfect Gentleman

Abby froze. Naturally he would offer to escort her tonight, the one evening she absolutely could not have him with her. “I—ah, that is—I wasn’t really planning to—I’ve already promised to attend a—a—” She couldn’t very well tell Graeme she was meeting a man who was going to reveal his father’s embezzlement. She was seized with inspiration. “A dinner! So you can see it would not do to arrive with an escort. It would throw the numbers off.”

“Ah. Of course.” His expression turned even more remote. “Very well.”

“And I have to go,” she went on, thinking he would wonder why she didn’t send her regrets and spend the evening with him instead. It was precisely what she would have done had the situation actually existed. “I wouldn’t want to be rude to . . . Mrs. Brown. The American ambassador’s wife.” That would be someone he wouldn’t know. “She would feel snubbed, you see. She is a little ill at ease . . . the British . . .” She realized she was explaining too much. She willed herself to stop.

A faint frown had replaced the aloof expression on his face. “Yes. No doubt. Another time, perhaps.”

“Yes!” She started to suggest the following evening, then thought that would be too forward. He already thought her far too pushy. She didn’t want to do anything to make him dislike her more.

He lingered. “Well, good day, then.”

“Good-bye.” She trailed after him into the other room, hoping she didn’t sound as forlorn to him as she did to herself. Graeme picked up his jacket from the chair where she had tossed it the night before and glanced back at her. Abby began to blush, remembering her former boldness.

Graeme hesitated, then nodded and was gone. Abby sighed as she watched the door shut behind him. It was silly to feel lonely now. She had spent the last ten years without Graeme Parr. One night with him did not make him indispensable.

It was useless to wish they were nestled on the sofa, sipping their coffee and talking, smiling, maybe now and then pausing for a kiss. That wasn’t the sort of life Abby could have with Graeme.

She couldn’t afford to spend the time it would have taken, anyway. It was late, and there were a number of things she had left to do today, chief among them visiting a gunsmith.

Meeting her informant outside a tavern sounded even less savory than their first meeting place. The weapon she carried last time had done well enough, she supposed, but it would be far safer to carry a pistol. She had decided to purchase a small gun that would fit into her pocket. Doing that and learning how to shoot it would take up most of her afternoon.

There was no time to waste mooning about over a man like some lovestruck girl. With that firmly in mind, she settled down on the sofa to eat her solitary breakfast.

Ten hours later, Abby stuck her head out the window of the cab and glanced up and down the dark street. The only streetlamp hung at the corner of the Crimson Pirate, faintly illuminating the weathered sign over the door. Cracked and fading, the color of the figure on it might once have been red; it was more difficult to identify the form as a pirate. The rest of the street lay in shadows of varying degrees. Nothing moved, but there was no way of telling what might be waiting in the darkness.

Abby closed her hand around the derringer in the pocket of her cloak. Stepping out of the carriage, she looked up at the driver. “Stay here. If you do, there’ll be five pounds in it for you.”

“Aye, I’ll wait,” the rough voice above her said. “But I tell you, best you get back in and I’ll take you back to the ’otel. Ain’t no place for a lady.”

“No doubt you’re right. Still, this is where I have to go. If you’ll just stay here, I’m sure I shall be fine.”

The coachman shrugged and settled back in his seat. Abby started briskly toward the tavern. One thing she had learned over the years was that one could not afford to look afraid. Confidence—or the appearance of it—had carried many a day.

She paused at the edge of the light, reluctant to expose herself to full view, and glanced around. The hack was still there, waiting. The river must be nearby; she could hear the lap of water. The rank smell of it was almost overpowering.

Skirting the arc of light, she drew near the tavern. The sound of the water was louder. Glancing down, she saw that only a low rock wall separated the street from the river’s edge. A shoe scraped on the pavement. Abigail peered into the darkness.

A shadow separated from the side of the building and a man came forward, stopping too far away for her to make out his features. “No Montclair this time, eh?”

“I came alone as you instructed. I must say, you have chosen an even more disreputable area than last time. If you expect to conduct business with me, I insist you find a better meeting place.”

There was a muffled snort, which she realized was amusement. “I can see you’ve got Price’s fierceness; for your sake, I hope you’re not as heartless.”

“You know my father?”

“I met him. I worked for Lord Reginald. That’s how I know about the money he ‘borrowed’ from the soldiers.”

“The soldiers?” She frowned. “What soldiers?”

“The wounded and infirm. The charity he sponsored. The tale is he took it from their funds, meaning to pay it back after he made a fortune buying that stock of your father’s. It was going to be a windfall—well, it was a windfall for Price when he sold out and sent it crashing. But not for Montclair or that fund.”

“Do you have any proof of this story?”

“Did you bring the money?”

“Yes, I have it right here. But this is very little information. Do you know anything worth buying? Did my father know Lord Reginald had embezzled the money?”

“Know?” He had moved forward as they talked, so that now he stepped into the dim edge of the light. His lips drew back in a humorless grin. “Oh, Price knew, right enough. He was the one who suggested that it be done.”