More than a Mistress/No Man's Mistress (3 page)

The girls had dissolved in convulsions of giggles as Jane had turned and left the workshop. As she strode away, she remembered she had not even asked for the two days' wages she had earned.

And what now? Return to the agency that had found her this job? After working for only two days? Part of the problem before had been that she had no references, no previous experience at anything. Surely worse than no references and no experience would be two days of work ended with dismissal for tardiness and lying.

She had spent the last of her money three days ago on enough food to last her until payday and on the cheap, serviceable dress she was wearing.

Jane stopped on the pavement suddenly, her legs weak with panic. What could she do? Where could she go? She had no money left even if she did decide belatedly that she wanted to go in search of Charles. She had no money even with which to send a letter. And perhaps even now she was being hunted. She had been in London
for longer than two weeks, after all, and she had done nothing to mask her trail here. Someone might well have followed her, especially if …

But she blanched as her mind shied away from that particular possibility.

At any moment she might see a familiar face and see the truth in that face—that she was indeed being pursued. Yet she was now being denied the chance to disappear into the relatively anonymous world of the working class.

Should she find another agency and neglect to mention the experience of the past few days? Were there any agencies she had not already visited at least half a dozen times?

And then a portly, hurrying gentleman collided painfully with her and cursed her before moving on. Jane rubbed one sore shoulder and felt anger rising again—a familiar feeling today. She had been angry with the bad-tempered duelist—apparently the Duke of Tresham. He had treated her like a thing, whose only function in life was to serve him. And then she had been angry with Madame, who had called her a liar and made her an object of sport.

Were women of the lower classes so utterly powerless, so totally without any right to respect?

That man
needed to be told that he had been the means of her losing her employment. He needed to know what a job meant to her—survival! And Madame needed to know that she could not call her a liar without any proof whatsoever. What had she said just a few minutes ago? That Jane could keep her job if she brought a note signed by the duke attesting to the truth of her story?

Well then, she would have her note.

And he would sign it.

Jane knew where he lived. On Grosvenor Square. She knew where that was too. During her first days in London, before she had understood how frighteningly alone she was, before fear had caught her in its grip and sent her scurrying for cover like the fugitive she now was, she had walked all over Mayfair. He lived at Dudley House on Grosvenor Square.

Jane went striding off along the pavement.

HE EARL OF DURBURY HAD TAKEN ROOMS AT
the Pulteney Hotel. He rarely came to London and owned no town house. He would have preferred a far less expensive hotel, but there were certain appearances to be kept up. He hoped he would not have to stay long but could soon be on his way back to Candleford in Cornwall.

The man standing in his private sitting room, hat in hand, his manner deferential but not subservient, would have something to do with the duration of the earl's stay. He was a small, dapper individual with oiled hair. He was not at all his lordship's idea of what a Bow Street Runner should look like, but that was what he was.

“I expect every man on the force to be out searching for her,” the earl said. “She should not be difficult to find. She is just a green country girl, after all, and has no acquaintances here apart from Lady Webb, who is out of town.”

“Begging your pardon, sir,” the Runner replied, “but there are other cases we are working on. I will have the assistance of one or two other men. Perfectly able men, I assure you.”

“I would think so too,” the earl grumbled, “considering what I am paying you.”

The Runner merely inclined his head politely. “Now,
if you could give me a description of the young lady,” he suggested.

“Tall and thin,” his lordship said. “Blond. Too pretty for her own good.”

“Her age, sir?”

“Twenty.”

“She is simply a runaway, then?” The Runner planted his feet more firmly on the carpet. “I was under the impression that there was more to it than that, sir.”

“There certainly is.” The earl frowned. “The woman is a criminal of the most dangerous kind. She is a murderess. She has killed my son—or as good as killed him. He is in a coma and not expected to live. And she is a thief. She ran off with a fortune in money and jewels. She must be found.”

“And brought to justice,” the Runner agreed. “Now, sir, if I may, I will question you more closely about the young woman—any peculiarities of appearance, mannerisms, preferences, favorite places and activities. Things like that. Anything that might help us to a hasty conclusion of our search.”

“I suppose,” his lordship said grudgingly, “you had better sit down. What is your name?”

“Boden, sir,” the Runner replied. “Mick Boden.”

J
OCELYN WAS FEELING QUITE
satisfyingly foxed. Satisfying except that he was horizontal on his bed when he preferred the upright position while inebriated—the room had less of a tendency to swing and dip and weave around him.

“ 'Nuff!” He held up a hand—or at least he thought he did—when Sir Conan offered him another glass of
brandy. “ 'f I drink more, th'old sawbones will have m'leg off b'fore I can protest.” His lips and tongue felt as if they did not quite belong to him. So did his brain.

“I have already given you my word that I will not amputate without your concurrence, your grace,” Dr. Timothy Raikes said stiffly, no doubt aggrieved at being referred to as a sawbones. “But it looks as if the bullet is deep. If it is lodged in the bone …”

“Gerr irr—” Jocelyn concentrated harder. He despised drunks who slurred their words. “Get it out of there, then.” The pain had been pleasantly numbed, but even his befuddled mind comprehended the fact that the alcohol he had consumed would not mask the pain of what was about to happen. There was no point in further delay. “Ged on—get on with the job, man.”

“If my daughter would just come,” the doctor said uneasily. “She is a good, steady-handed assistant in such cases. I sent for her as soon as I was summoned here, but she must have left Hookham's Library before the messenger arrived.”

“Blast your daughter!” Jocelyn said rudely. “Get—”

But Conan interrupted.

“Here she is.” There was marked relief in his voice.

“No, sir,” Dr. Raikes replied. “This is merely a housemaid. But she will have to do. Come here, girl. Are you squeamish? Do you faint at the sight of blood as his grace's valet does?”

“No to both questions,” the housemaid said. “But there must have been some mis—”

“Come here,” the doctor said more impatiently. “I have to dig a bullet out of his grace's leg. You must hand me the instruments I ask for and swab the blood so that I can see what I am doing. Come closer. Stand here.”

Jocelyn braced himself by grasping the outer edges of the mattress with both hands. He caught a brief glimpse of the housemaid before she disappeared beyond Raikes. Coherent thought vanished a moment later as everything in his body, his mind, his world exploded into searing agony. There was nowhere, no corner of his being, in which to hide as the physician cut and probed and dug deeper and deeper in search of the bullet. Conan was pressing down with both hands on his thigh to hold his leg immobile. Jocelyn held the rest of himself still by dint of sheer willpower and a death grip on the mattress and tightly clenched eyes and teeth. With dogged determination he concentrated on keeping himself from screaming.

Time lost all meaning. It seemed forever before he heard the physician announce with damnable calm that the bullet was out.

“It's out, Tresham,” Conan repeated, sounding as if he had just run ten miles uphill. “The worst is over.”

“Damn it to hell!” Jocelyn commented after using a few other more blistering epithets. “Can't you perform the simple task of removing a bullet, Raikes, without taking all morning over it?”

“I worked as fast as I could, your grace,” his physician replied. “It was embedded in muscles and tendons. It is difficult to assess the damage that has been done. But haste on my part would almost certainly have crippled you and rendered amputation unavoidable.”

Jocelyn swore again. And then felt the indescribable comfort of a cool, damp cloth being pressed first to his forehead and then to each of his cheeks. He had not realized how hot he was. He opened his eyes.

He recognized her instantly. Her golden hair was
dressed with ruthless severity. Her mouth was in a thin line as it had been the last time he saw her—in Hyde Park. She had shed the gray cloak and bonnet she had been wearing then, but what was beneath them was no improvement. She wore a cheap, tasteless gray dress, primly high at the neckline. Despite his inebriation, which his pain had largely put to flight, Jocelyn seemed to recall that he was lying on his own bed in his own bedchamber in his own London home. She had been in Hyde Park on her way to work.

“What the devil are
you
doing here?” he demanded.

“Helping to mop up blood and now sponging away sweat,” she replied, turning to dip her cloth in a bowl and squeeze it out before pressing it to his forehead again. Saucy wench.

“Oh, I say!” Conan had obviously just recognized her too.

“Who let you in?” Jocelyn winced and swore as Dr. Raikes spread something over his wound.

“Your butler, I suppose,” she said. “I told him I had come to speak with you, and he whisked me up here. He said I was expected. You may wish to advise him to greater caution about the people he admits. I might have been anyone.”

“You
are
anyone!” Jocelyn barked, tightening his grip on the mattress as his leg was moved and a universe of pain crashed through him. The doctor was beginning to bandage his wound. “What the devil do you want?”

“Whoever you are,” the doctor began, sounding nervous, “you are upsetting my patient. Perhaps you—”

“What I
demand,
” she said firmly, ignoring him, “is a signed note to the effect that you detained me against
my will this morning and thus caused me to be late for work.”

He must be drunker than he had realized, Jocelyn thought.

“Go to the devil,” he told the impertinent serving girl.

“I might well have to,” she said, “if I lose my employment.” She was dabbing at his chin and neck with her cool cloth.

“Perhaps—” Dr. Raikes began again.

“Why should I care,” Jocelyn asked her, “if you lose your job and are tossed out onto the street to starve? If it were not for you, I would not be lying here as helpless as a beached whale.”

“I was not the one aiming a pistol at you,” she pointed out. “I was not the one who pulled the trigger. I called to both of you to stop, if you will remember.”

Was he actually, Jocelyn wondered suddenly, scrapping with a mere laboring girl? In his own home? In his own bedchamber? He pushed her arm away.

“Conan,” he said curtly, “give this girl the sovereign she ran away from earlier, if you will be so good, and throw her out if she refuses to go on her own feet.”

But his friend had time for only one step forward.

“She certainly
does
refuse to go,” the girl said, straightening up and glaring down at him, two spots of color reddening her cheeks. She was having the unmitigated gall to be angry and to show it to his face. “She will not budge until she has her signed note.”

“Tresham,” Conan said, sounding almost amused, “it would take you only a moment, old chap. I can send down for paper, pen, and ink. I can even write the note myself, and all you will need do is sign it. It is her livelihood.”

“The devil!” Jocelyn exclaimed. “I will not even dignify that suggestion with a reply. She may grow roots where she stands until a burly footman comes to toss her out on her ear. Are you finished, Raikes?”

The doctor had straightened from his task and turned to his bag.

“I am, your grace,” Dr. Raikes said. “There is much damage, I feel it my duty to warn you. It is my hope that it will not be permanent. But it most certainly will be if you do not stay off the leg and keep it elevated for at least the next three weeks.”

Jocelyn stared at him, appalled. Three weeks of total inaction? He could not think of a worse fate.

“If you will not write the note,” the girl said, “then
you
must offer me employment to replace my lost job. I simply refuse to starve.”