Gallant Scoundrel (19 page)

He poured her a glass anyway. “Come, Xena, we may as well try to be comfortable, as we’ve both agreed to give Pete’s mad scheme a chance. He said you were willing to stay through the first of the year?”

She took the glass he proffered almost without noticing. “That is what I agreed to, yes,” she said cautiously.
 

“Yet the other night, you claimed you could not remain in London long—that you had important business to attend to in Yorkshire. Is that no longer true?”

Caught off-guard, she avoided his penetrating gaze and lifted a shoulder. “’Tis…not quite so urgent as I’d thought, it turns out.”

“You never were a good liar, Xena. In fact, you used to pride yourself on your forthrightness—though I suppose people do change over time.”
 

Her eyes snapped back to his. “So I’ve noticed. When I knew you on the Peninsula, you never drank at all.” She nodded toward his already nearly-empty glass of port. “If you wish to declare this experiment a failure at the outset—”

“Never said that, did I? I’m willing to give it a go if you are. Besides, five hundred pounds is more than I can afford to whistle down the wind.” He said it jokingly, but she was unable to see any humor in it when her son’s future potentially lay in this man’s hands.

Unabashedly returning to the sideboard to refill his glass, he spoke over his shoulder. “So tell me, Xena, is there something in particular about London that convinced you to winter here after all?”

Did he hope she would say it was him? Moving to sit in one of the overstuffed chairs near the fire, she took a cautious sip of port, something she’d not drunk in several years. It was a good vintage, the sweet liquid warming her throat pleasantly as it slid down.
 

“I, ah, realized how much warmer it is here than in Yorkshire, for one,” she finally said. “And of course there are numerous amusements to be found here that are sadly lacking at home.”

“Of course.” Regarding her intently now, Harry nudged the chair nearest hers a bit closer and sat. “Given those attractions, one wonders why you’ve never come to Town before?”

Xena frowned. “As I said, money has been rather tight. My main purpose in coming now was to remedy that.”
 

“Ah, yes. By selling some of your father’s foreign treasures. I do remember you saying so.” Again he allowed his gaze to rove over her body—or, rather, her new lilac-over-silver gown. “I take it you’ve met with rather more success these past few days?”

“A bit, yes. Enough to allow me to refurbish my wardrobe, as you’ve clearly noticed, and to have the most pressing repairs begun at home. Another reason I prefer to stay in Town for the present,” she added on sudden inspiration. “Some of those repairs are like to be disruptive and noisy.”
 

It was only a slight fib, for she hoped to have enough money for those repairs and more within a week or so, which she would forward to Yorkshire with precisely those instructions. She had already written asking her steward to package up and send the Grecian items she had agreed to sell. She still needed to devise a way to communicate with Mr. Gold from this house without Harry learning of it…

He leaned in now, his gaze more penetrating than ever. “You seem distracted, Xena. Can it be you are finding this new arrangement as unsettling as I am?”

“How can I not?” Though she tried to keep her voice light, she was disgusted to hear a slight tremor in it, for his nearness was indeed unsettling her. “Only three nights since, we both agreed to behave as though that marriage, which neither of us sought, never occurred. Now, thanks to the machinations of your friend, we are sharing a house! Little wonder if neither of us is quite certain how to act.”

His rueful smile admitted the truth of her words. “It’s proving rather a challenge, I’ll grant you. But whatever our motives for going along with Pete’s experiment, now we are here, should we not make the best of it?”

“Exactly how do you propose we do that?” Again she heard that traitorous tremor in her voice.

“I can think of numerous ways.” His voice was low, silken. “Can’t you?”
 

His suggestive tone, his charming, slightly wicked smile, took her instantly back to a time when she’d eagerly looked forward to each secret liaison. A time when her greatest pleasure in life had been those stolen moments of passion—a pleasure she had never dared hope she’d experience again…
 

Desperately, sternly, she reminded herself that things were quite different now. Even if it
were
possible to recapture that passion, succumbing to Harry’s charm now would be a mistake. Wouldn’t it? Under his continued warm, searching regard, her resolve began to weaken.

“I…ah…” She gave her head a small shake to clear it.

Instantly, Harry’s expression changed. “Never mind.” Drawing back, he abruptly stood. “I’ve just remembered that I was to meet some friends this evening, so if you’ll excuse me?”

“Oh. Er, of course.” She felt more disappointed than relieved by his sudden withdrawal, which of course was absurd. “I wouldn’t wish to keep you from the gaming tables.” The acid that now laced her tone was aimed as much at herself as at him.

“Very understanding of you.” His grin did not quite reach his eyes. “You’re certain you don’t mind me leaving you our first night here?”

“Not at all. As it happens, I have quite a bit of correspondence to attend to.” Her resolve safely back in place, she stood as well.

Though she half feared—or hoped?—he would approach her again, he did not.
 

“I’ll bid you good night, then.” With a formal nod, he turned and left the room.

Xena blinked after him, chiding herself for her foolishly conflicting feelings a moment since. It was a good thing—a
very
good thing—that he was leaving before she could give into the temptation to do something she would almost certainly regret.
 

As soon as she heard the front door close downstairs, she released a sigh that she told herself was purely from relief. She then headed up to her bedchamber for a boring evening of letter writing.

H
ARRY
STRODE
down the street in the direction of one of his more disreputable gaming hells, cursing his stupidity. What a fool he’d been to think Xena might still be attracted to him now! If she was receiving the attentions of some rich gallant, as he felt increasingly certain she must be, what possible interest could she have in a useless half-pay soldier with one arm?
 

A chorus of greetings met him as he entered the Black Crow, where he’d spent more debauched evenings than he could remember over the past two or three years. Clara, one of the pretty, buxom serving wenches the establishment was known for, hurried to plant a kiss on his cheek, pressing herself suggestively against him.

“‘Arry, by my faith! It’s been a month and more. What c’n I give you?”

Throwing his arm around her, he gave her shoulders a squeeze, then seated himself at an empty table. “Claret, as it’s nearly your namesake.” The squeeze and wink he gave her were from habit more than desire, for he was still preoccupied by thoughts of Xena.

The wench snatched a just-opened bottle off the next table despite complaints from the men sitting there. “This be a prime ‘un. ’Twill put you in fine fettle for later.” With a saucy wink of her own, she sauntered off to fetch the still-protesting group another bottle.

Over the next hour Harry tripled the money he’d brought with him. That, plus the excellent claret, improved his mood somewhat. Then the maxim, “lucky at cards, unlucky at love” floated through his brain. Abruptly, despite Clara’s increasingly amorous overtures, he lost all appetite for remaining longer.

No, what he really needed to restore his spirits—and confidence—was a rousing adventure as the Saint. Flute still had long list of worthy families needing assistance.

Ignoring Clara’s pout, he bid a pleasant good night to his unsavory companions and headed to Seven Dials. There, he quickly changed into the nondescript black furze coat and trousers he used for housebreaking and shouldered the black, cross-body sack that helped to compensate for his missing arm. Now to find a challenging target promising a suitably impressive prize as a reward.
 

As Mayfair was where such a prize was like to be found, he bent his steps back westward. He was scarcely away from Seven Dials, however, before he was accosted by Flute’s young compatriot, Tig.
 

“Evenin’, guv, remember me? Off to help the Saint again, eh? Is Flute meeting you there? Can I come?”

Harry frowned down at the boy. “Bit late for you to be out, isn’t it?”

Tig shrugged. “No more’n usual. I’d as soon sleep when there’s no fun to be had. So can I help again?”
 

Remembering how hard it had been to dissuade the lad last time, he cast about for a job he might do that would be unlikely to put him in danger. “Hm. There is something you can do for me, yes.”

“What? There’s lots I’m good at, just ask Flute. I c’n—”

“There’s a, ah, lady I’d like to have watched, if you’re willing. Do you remember where Lord Marcus used to live?”

“Oh, aye, guv. That ain’t the house you’ll be robbing, is it? He’s a right’un. Fed me and me chums a treat once’t or twice.”

“No, no. But that’s where the lady is staying. I’d like you to keep an eye on the place when you’ve time, let me know where she goes, who she sees, that sort of thing. Without being spotted, mind you.” Xena was unlikely to suspect a grubby little urchin, but Harry knew that addition would appeal to the boy.

Indeed, he nodded eagerly, his face alight. “On it, guv! I c’n enlist a few o’ the other lads to help out, too. How often d’you want me to report back?”

Harry hadn’t thought that far, especially as he rather hoped there’d be nothing to report. Still, it would be good to know for certain, and it might keep some of these street urchins out of trouble for a bit. “I’ll, ah, contact you through Flute, shall I? No need to start till tomorrow as she’ll be asleep now. She may be up early, however, so you should hie off to your own bed.”

Tig straightened importantly and sketched a salute. “Aye, guv, I’ll be on the job bright and early. Good luck tonight!”

Harry waited until the boy was out of sight, then continued on toward the West End where, after half an hour of careful skulking, he was rewarded by the sight of Lord Gillyfather, an Irish upstart who delighted in flaunting his wealth, just leaving his ostentatious house on Berkley Square. A fitting target, to be sure.
 

The robbery itself went off without a hitch. An unlocked ground-level window and a few easily-picked locks later, he prepared to leave the way he’d come with a satisfyingly heavy haul of silver, gold, jewelry and notes bundled into the sack slung over his right shoulder. Silently returning to the window at the rear of the house, he lifted his booty through to set it outside on the ground. Then, as he was on the point of joining his sack of treasure, his luck turned.

“Oi! Who goes there?” came a shout from the hallway behind him. “Stop! Thief!”

With a stifled oath, Harry vaulted through the window into the kitchen garden. Snatching up his satchel, he ran to the back gate only to have his path blocked by a burly groom coming to investigate the clamor.

Without slowing, Harry lowered a shoulder and knocked the startled man aside even as voices and hurrying footsteps sounded behind him. A moment later he was running full tilt through the mews, his takings bouncing against his side, chased by at least three or four shouting men.

Luckily the night was exceedingly foggy, even for London in November, providing a slightly better chance of escaping his pursuers. Though the burden he carried slowed him down, he stubbornly refused to drop it and admit even partial defeat. He ducked around corner after corner, hoping to confuse those following.

The leaders were close enough behind that his first two ruses failed. They were still hot on his heels and their companions not far distant when ahead, he saw an open stable door. Feinting as though going through, he instead ducked into the shadow behind it, still in the mews. It worked. The lead pursuers flung themselves into the stable with a yell of triumph to began searching.When the other two men caught up and joined them, Harry moved noiselessly away down the mews before they discovered what he’d done.

He turned another corner, this one leading out to a larger street, when a shout from behind informed him the pursuit had begun again. Breaking into a run again, he headed for some bushes at the corner of Mount Street and ducked behind them to catch his breath. While he was still panting, he heard one of the men call to the Watch, demanding help to chase down the Saint of Seven Dials. Had a servant from the house he’d robbed discovered one of his cards so quickly, or were they just guessing?

Not that it mattered. If they caught him he was done for either way. The Northrup house on Grosvenor Street was his nearest refuge. Much as he’d prefer returning first to Seven Dials to drop off his bounty and change clothes, that did not appear to be an option.
 

First, however, he needed a distraction. Searching the ground at his feet, he found a largish stone. Carefully stooping so as not to drop or jangle his satchel of loot, he picked it up and waited his moment. It came when the group of pursuers—now including an elderly member of the Watch, wielding a rattle—passed an alleyway between two nearby houses. The moment their backs were to the alley, Harry took careful aim and heaved the rock down it, creating a noisy clatter.
 

In a flash, the men wheeled about and ran pell-mell into the alley, the watchman’s rattle adding to their racket. Seizing up his prize again, Harry sprinted in the opposite direction, toward Grosvenor Street and safety.

Luckily Peter had given him a key, sparing him the need to ring and wake the household—or Xena. Slipping quickly inside, he shut the front door behind him and breathed a sigh of relief. Rather more adventure than he’d bargained for—his closest escape yet, in fact—but at least he’d come away with the fruit of his efforts. Passing a startled footman, he put a finger to his lips and made his way upstairs.