Authors: Andrea Pickens
In spite of himself, Branford could not suppress a low chuckle. "You are impossible, Cecelia."
"So Henry tells me." She rose and planted another light kiss on his forehead. "Try to rest tonight and gather your strength. Somehow, I have the distinct feeling you are going to need it."
Hammerton was feeling extraordinarily lucky. Sure enough, the dice came up favorably again. Yes, he was on a roll. Around him, other men in various stages of inebriation muttered curses at his good fortune and drifted away to other tables. He raked his winnings across the green baize and stuffed them into his pocket as his eyes sought to penetrate the smoky haze enveloping the gaming hell.
He spotted Standish in a corner, a doxy on his lap, her skirts already pushed up around her ample thighs. His hands were roaming over her front where the thin material of her gown made only the barest pretense of covering her breasts. As Hammerton approached, he could see his cousin's hips rocking up and down, his head lolling back and his breath coming faster and faster.
"I must speak with you immediately," he said, coming up behind Standish's chair.
Standish froze. "Now?" he cried incredulously
A malicious smile crossed Hammerton's face as he observed the effect of his presence. The girl shifted slightly, then slipped from Standish's lap.
"P'rhaps later," she said with a saucy grin.
"Couldn't this have waited a few more minutes?" whined his cousin as he took a silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the perspiration from his brow.
"Button yourself and come with me. You will be pleased enough to kiss my boots rather than that tart's nipple when you hear what I have to tell you."
With one hand firmly on the other man's elbow, Hammerton guided him towards the door, brushing aside an older gentleman who was groping a girl scarcely older than thirteen. Of all the establishments catering to the appetites of men with money, this was one of the more disreputable, so there was little chance of being recognized by anyone from proper Society. Nonetheless, Hammerton hurried Standish through the cool night air and bade him climb in the waiting carriage.
"I'm not finished for the night. Couldn't we have talked in there?"
Hammerton rapped on the trap and the carriage moved off.
"I need you with your wits about you tomorrow." He steepled his fingers and a self-satisfied look spread over his features as he regarded his companion. "A most fortuitous thing has happened." He recounted what had taken place earlier in the evening "Isn't it rich — I am now her protector. She trusts me implicitly."
Standish's jaw dropped in astonishment. Hammerton have a harsh laugh.
"You wanted the matter resolved quickly? I assure you, by tomorrow night, she and her damnable brother will be a problem for us no longer. The plan couldn't be
simpler...."
He leaned forward and the two of them conversed in low tones for the rest of the ride back to Hammerton's townhouse.
Alex moved desultorily around the library. Her eyes were dull with lack of sleep, and she knew that any attempt at painting would only culminate in a result even more depressing than inactivity. Instead, she busied herself with straightening up the library. The table was strewn with papers and stacks of books which she began to arrange into neat piles.
When she came to her father's letter she paused, studying its meaningless letters and strange symbols with a rising sense of frustration. She couldn't shake the feeling that somehow their current troubles were linked in some way with their father's odd penchant for secrecy. With a silent oath, she threw it onto the nearest pile and turned to reorganizing her portfolio.
As she arranged the plants according to genus and species, her hands stopped at the hibiscus. She made herself look at it. It was one of her strongest works, the form and color infused with a vitality that nearly made the petals and leaves sprout up off the paper. A tear or two appeared, unbidden, and she wiped them away with the sleeve of her gown. Perhaps he would still like to have it, even though he had not fulfilled his end of the bargain. That is, of course, assuming his admiration was not feigned, not merely part of the game. She knew she would never be able to look at it without hearing his rich baritone voicing its praises or seeing in her mind's eye the warmth of his sapphire eyes as he glanced from her easel to her face.
Damnation, it was his eyes that haunted her. The way they had looked at her in the candlelight, the depth of emotion they had revealed in the moment before his own release, as if allowing her to see into the vulnerable, unsure self that he kept submerged so deep within. Everything between them — from the heated discussions to the laughter to the gentle touch of his fingers as he dressed her wound — seemed real. And yet, she had heard the single, stark word spoken that consigned all of it to being no more than illusion. Her intellect accepted that she had been manipulated by one whose skills at dissemblement far surpassed her ability to discern it. But her heart still fought against believing it.
"Alex?" Lady Beckworth's voice floated through the door.
Alex smoothed her gown, brushed her sleeve once more over her eyes and forced a bright look.
"Yes, I'm here."
Lady Beckworth poked her head in. "Oh. You are at work early."
Her gaze lingered on Alex's wan face with some concern before she continued speaking. "A note arrived for you just now." The door opened the rest of the way to admit her frail form and she handed the folded paper to her niece.
Alex regarded the unfamiliar handwriting with a slight frown before she broke the seal.
Dear Miss Chilton,
I have discovered some extraordinary news concerning the matter we discussed last night. Until I have a chance to explain, I think it best to maintain absolute secrecy and discretion. If you will take a walk at 10 this morning, a hackney cab will pick you up at the entrance to Green Park and bring you to me.
Yours, etc.
Hammerton
Carefully schooling her features to reveal no emotion, she tucked the letter into her bodice. In answer to her aunt's inquiring look, she said, "Mr. Simpson has managed to procure a few of the prized specimens that arrived from the East Indies last week. Perhaps I shall go see them later."
Lady Beckworth looked as if to say something but Alex turned and began busying herself with cleaning her palette and brushes. Lips pressed together, her aunt took herself off to confer with Cook over the supper menu.
An hour later, Alex left the house alone.
Lady Ashton's carriage rolled to a stop before the modest townhouse. Moving with even greater alacrity than normal, she mounted the steps and knocked impatiently on the door. An elderly servant finally answered the summons.
"Kindly inform Miss Chilton that Lady Ashton wishes to see her on a most urgent matter."
The servant blinked. "Miss Alex is not at home."
Lady Ashton pursed her lips. She had called at the earliest possible hour that manners allowed. Where could the girl has gone off to?
"Do you know when she will return?"
The man shook his head.
"Please tell her I shall return this afternoon." She put her card on the silver tray the man was holding patiently in front of him. "And do not forget to add that it is most important I see her." Lady Ashton did not like her plans, once put into action, to be thwarted, but she had no choice. It seemed she would have to wait until later.
Branford gingerly swung his legs to the floor and stood up slowly. Though feeling a trifle unsteady, the dizziness and nausea had passed — as had his despair. Satisfied, he rang for his valet. Freshly shaved and dressed, he felt even more like a new man. At least there was a glimmer of hope, he thought with a rueful smile as he recalled Lady Ashton's visit. When she put her mind to it, anything — even untangling the coil he had gotten himself into — was possible. And what's more, she had made him realize what a coward he had been. It wasn't like him to give up and retreat without a fight. Cecelia was right — Alex deserved better from him. The resolve gave spring to his step. Throwing a silk dressing gown over his shirt, he made his way downstairs.
He went right to his study, asking for coffee and toast to be brought there, Something about the letter Alex had given him had been hovering at the edges of his consciousness throughout his feverish state. While he waited for news from Lady Ashton, he determined to have another look at it. He removed the copy Alex had made from his desk drawer, along with the sheaf of notes he had made during his trip to East Anglia. Spreading the pieces of paper out over the entire desk top reminded him of the jigsaw puzzles he had played with a s a child. The analogy seemed apt. All the pieces were here, he was sure.
He just had to figure out how they went together.
Alex hesitated before the nondescript coach.
"Be ye Miss Chilton?" growled the driver.
She nodded and he jerked his head to indicate she should climb inside. With a quick look around to satisfy herself that no one was taking any notice, she quickly obeyed. A flick of the whip set the horses in motion. Inside the musty interior Alex could barely make out the passing sights through the small, grimy window. She could tell they were heading east, but she soon lost all sense of bearing as the hackney threaded its way through a maze of increasingly seedy streets until it finally came to a halt by a deserted alleyway. Two razor thin dogs fighting over an old leather boots were the only signs of life save for another carriage. It was painted entirely black, with no markings to distinguish it. Even the coachman blended in seamlessly with it, dressed head to toe in the same somber color, a voluminous cloak drawn round him and a slouched hat pulled low over his eyes. Four powerful horses stomped impatiently at the rutted mud.
"Yer ta git out here, " said Alex's driver.
She wrenched the door open and climbed down, well glad to be out of the dank space. The door of the other carriage swung open. The interior was as inky as the one she had just left, causing her to stop momentarily amid the broken crates and decaying garbage. Behind her the chink of coins jingled as her driver caught a leather purse tossed to him by the other coachman. The hackney immediately rattled off, leaving her little choice but to walk towards the waiting carriage.
A gloved hand reached out of the shadowed recesses to assist her up.
"Your pardon, Miss Chilton, for such an unpleasant start," came a disembodied voice.
"Lord Hammerton." Alex's tone betrayed a touch of relief as well as annoyance. "Pray sir, was this really necessary? Surely you could have met me in a less out of the way place without attracting undue attention."
"You will soon see the necessity of it, I assure you," he answered smoothly.
Alex settled herself into the seat facing him and wasted no time in getting down to business. Her nerves, already frayed dangerously thin, were in no state for beating around the bush.
"What have you learned?" she demanded.
Hammerton smiled inwardly . "Please be patient, Miss Chilton. I had rather arrive at our destination before beginning an explanation."
"Have you learned the identity of whoever is trying to harm my brother?"
"Indeed I have. And you shall soon know it too. Trust me, Miss Chilton."
Alex leaned back and bit her lip to cut off any of the sharp retorts that came to mind. She had, after all, put herself in his hands and supposed she must curb her own inclinations to immediate action. He must know what he was about, especially if he had succeeded in discovering who was behind all their troubles in just one night. Still, she was acutely uncomfortable. Perhaps it was the gloomy atmosphere inside the cab. The curtains had been drawn, emitting so little light that she could barely see her own hands clenched tightly in her lap. Hammerton's face was merely a black silhouette, devoid of all expression. She gave a tiny shudder. It reminded her of being in a tomb.