“Leave a message at a tavern if I have a need of him?”
It was Maryann’s turn to frown. Farrell had expected her to come to him for help? How strange. But he had spoken with Rob before she accused him of being a back stabber, scum, and possibly worse. She remembered the look on his face when she said she despised him and could not doubt that he did not intend to ever see her again.
But he had seen her, last night, and he had assured her, albeit coldly, that he didn’t hold her loss of temper against her.
And she … With a sinking heart, Maryann remembered that she had promptly lost her temper again.
Trying to hide her misgivings in a flurry of activity, she rose and shook out the coat Robert had loaned her.
“What are we waiting for, Rob?” Flinging the coat at the groom, Maryann marched off. “Let’s be gone to the Fighting Cock and send for Mr. Farrell.”
“Go to Seven Dials? Are ye daft?”
There was nothing of the respectful groom about Rob as he strode at her side up Arundel Street, into the Strand where the carriage waited. He painted for her in gruesome detail the horrors of Seven Dials—lair of thieves and murderers, home of pimps and whores. No reasoning, no cajolery, could move him to change his stubborn mind. He would not drive Maryann to the Fighting Cock.
In fact, he insisted with maddening superiority, he could not. He didn’t know the exact location of the tavern, and he was not about to stop and ask directions in a district notorious for mobbing any carriage that moved at too slow a pace to be a danger to would-be robbers.
“Very well!” Ignoring the invitingly open carriage door and the gaping, peg-legged ex-soldier who had taken charge of the horses during their absence, Maryann made a last attack on Rob’s defenses. “I’ll take a hackney.”
For a moment it was touch and go whether she’d be picked up and tossed into the carriage or put across his knee for a deserved spanking. A well-deserved spanking. She knew she was treating him abominably. But too much was at risk to wait for him to take her home, find the tavern, deliver a message, and hope for the best that Farrell had not decided to ignore a request for help.
The soldier said eagerly, “Oi can show ye to the tavern. Oi’s been there many a time.”
“There, you see!” Maryann gave Robert a challenging look. “That’s settled, then.”
He scowled at the soldier, then at his mistress. “An’ ye would take a hackney if I said no, wouldn’t ye?” he said bitterly. “I’ve never known anyone so mule-headed. Well, get in, then. I’d rather take ye meself than let ye go off with no more’n a jarvey to protect ye.”
While Rob, with the soldier beside him, drove her northeast through a rabbit warren of ever-narrowing streets, Maryann found herself once again sitting on the edge of the carriage seat. This time, her foot was tapping not in impatience, but to relieve the tension mounting in her.
Despite Rob’s graphic description of the horrors to be found in the disreputable slum area, Maryann was unprepared for the reality of naked children playing in the kennels, of men and women comatose on the steps of taverns and gin shops, of the stench penetrating into the carriage and making her gag.
Not in her wildest imagination could she have pictured such squalor, such filth as she saw in the alleys crisscrossing the seven converging streets that gave the district its name. If the groom had stopped and offered to take her to Mount Street, Maryann might have agreed to turn back and wait for Farrell in her father’s house.
But the carriage rolled on at a smart clip, turned sharply, and swept through an arched gateway. Before Maryann could see more than a cobbled yard walled in by stables and a coach house on two sides, Rob hustled her through the back entrance of a tall, narrow brick building.
Darkness and a foul, yeasty odor engulfed her as he guided her along a passageway. Somewhere ahead, she heard the din and racket, the raucous laughter, the shrill screams that had marked taverns and public houses throughout the carriage ride here. Behind her, the soldier’s peg leg stumped on the wooden floor.
This could not possibly be the Fighting Cock, the place Stephen Farrell had chosen as a repository for messages. Surely no gentleman would know such a squalid tavern. If it hadn’t been for the groom’s reassuring hand on her arm, she’d have taken to her heels and run as fast as she could.
“An’ what can I do for ye?” The male voice coming from the deepest gloom of the passage conveyed irritation and suspicion rather than willingness to serve.
“A private parlor for the lady,” said Rob with the aplomb of a duke. “And send a message to Mr. Farrell to come hither instantly.”
Another voice, a voice Maryann recognized, demanded impatiently, “Who’s that, Fletcher? Who’s asking for me?”
Maryann shook off Rob’s hand and stepped forward. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she distinguished a rotund, apron-clad figure, presumably Fletcher, the publican of the Fighting Cock, and next to him, the tall, powerful shape of Stephen Farrell.
They stared at each other.
There was something about Farrell, a certain raffishness, a look of devil-may-care, which Maryann had not been aware of during their prior meetings. Perhaps it was the effect of the sun-streaked hair that was especially unruly this day, the coat of excellent cut and material, but very much in need of pressing, the Hessian boots that would benefit from an application of blacking. Whatever it was, it did nothing to soothe her growing unease.
“The deuce,” Farrell muttered. “What are you doing here?”
Maryann drew herself up. “You did tell my groom I might send for you.”
“That, Lady Maryann, was before I decided to wash my hands of you. And sending for me is a far cry from showing up yourself.”
Daunted but determined not to show it, she measured Farrell with a look Queen Bess could not have surpassed in hauteur. “Is there a room in this—this hostelry, where we might speak in private?”
Farrell and Fletcher exchanged glances. What message passed between the two men, Maryann could not tell, but the publican’s suspicious mien changed to an ingratiating smile.
“To be sure, yer ladyship! I can offer a very fine private parlor. If yer ladyship will step this way?”
Bowing and scraping, he gestured to a staircase that so far had escaped Maryann’s notice. She eyed the worn, dirty steps, the greasy handrail missing several banisters.
“I shall follow you, Mr. Fletcher.”
With a speed and agility amazing in one so round and heavy, the publican mounted the stairs. Gingerly, Maryann ascended behind him and was in turn followed by Farrell and Rob. She did not hear the soldier’s peg leg and was thinking that she wouldn’t have minded if he had come along and offered his services and protection, when the stairs gave a sudden twist and she was distracted by the feel of carpeting beneath her feet. The handrail still felt slick, but she doubted grease was the cause. The unmistakable smell of beeswax tickled her nose.
The change in atmosphere was so startling that even in her state of apprehension she could not help but wonder about it. She glanced at Farrell close behind her, but the reserved, even cold, expression on his face changed her mind about asking questions.
She trod higher and reached the upper hallway. Light streamed through windows that had recently been washed, exposing clean white walls, polished woodwork, a gleaming brass fixture or two.
Fletcher opened a door not too far removed from the stairs. “Here ye be, yer ladyship. Best private parlor in the house.”
Maryann entered a chamber furnished with an oak settle against one of the walls, and a large table and chairs in the center of the room. Worn but spotless rugs covered the wooden floor; starched curtains of bright green cotton graced two mullioned windows. A fire was laid in the fireplace, but when Fletcher reached for the tinderbox on the mantel, Farrell waved him away.
“Does this meet with your approval, Lady Maryann?” Farrell’s voice mocked, but his dark eyes betrayed a trace of concern.
“It will do.”
Maryann nodded dismissal to Fletcher and, when the door closed behind the publican’s bulk, took a seat at the table.
“Will you join me, Mr. Farrell?”
He perched on a corner of the table, placing her at the disadvantage of having to look up at him.
“Coming here for the sake of a chat was ill-advised and foolish, Lady Maryann. You saw me last night. Why didn’t you say then whatever it is you wish to say to me?”
Maryann looked at the groom standing stiffly to attention. “You’ll be more comfortable, Rob, if you pull a chair up to the door.”
“Blocking entrance or exit?” asked Farrell. “Don’t you trust me, Lady Maryann?”
She returned his mocking stare gravely. “Are you telling me I may trust you?”
His face went still, expressionless. Even the booted leg swinging jauntily a moment ago, hung motionless.
“If you weren’t so young, you’d know not to ask a man whether you may trust him. You’d follow your instinct. What does your instinct tell you, Lady Maryann?”
She’d had so many doubts about him, such grave misgivings about asking his help, but, facing him now and looking into his eyes, she could not recall a single one. Even his rakish looks did not alarm her any longer. She rather liked them.
Instinct told her to trust him—but could she trust her instinct?
“I’ve learned a lesson about blind trust, Mr. Farrell. And I’m convinced that common sense and an application of prudence and caution never hurt anyone.”
“Just so. To be discovered tête-à-tête with a man other than your betrothed might be difficult to explain away.”
She would not rise to provocation. Not today. Determinedly, Maryann took the plunge. “It is about my betrothed that I wish to speak with you.”
Farrell raised a brow and waited politely.
“You made certain remarks, sir.”
“Indeed. You found them offensive.”
“Mr. Farrell, will you listen to me? It is difficult enough for me to broach such matters without the benefit of your comments.”
He bent his head to examine the border of white linen extending beneath the sleeve of his coat, but Maryann felt certain he was watching her.
“Then you have not come to make up for your omission on Monday?” he asked. “You’ve not come to box my ears?”
In a flash, she remembered that moment in the curricle when her hands had balled and she had wanted to hit him. “You knew I wanted …?”
She bit her lip, annoyed with herself. If he could catch her off guard so easily and distract her from her purpose, she’d be no match for him in the tricky business about Tammadge.
She swallowed. “I accused you of lying about my—about Tammadge.”
“You accused me of worse, Lady Maryann. You accused me of taking pleasure in putting you to the blush.”
She felt the telltale surge of warmth to her face, and rushed on, not considering whether she ought to apologize or explain, but merely wanting to get her point across.
“I meant to go to Tammadge. To tell him about you. How you blackened his character. But then I did not.”
“What happened to make you change your mind?”
“I heard … rumors. How Tammadge is acquiring his wealth. I could not ignore the tales. They made me look at your words in a different light.”
Farrell flicked a glance at Robert sitting stolidly in front of the door. “Your man,” he said. “Do you trust him?”
“With my life.”
His mouth twitched. “Obviously. You must trust him with your life if you allowed him to drive you to this place. But I meant, are you afraid he’ll gossip? You seem reluctant to come to the point of your visit.”
“Lady Maryann got no cause to think I’ll carry tales about her,” Rob cut in angrily. “And don’t ye go puttin’ foolish notions in her head, Mr. Farrell. Like havin’ me wait outside, ’cause I won’t leave her alone with anyone for any reason.”
“Very laudable,” Farrell said drily. “I’m glad to know you have some sense.”
Robert’s face burned with mortification, and Maryann was quick to jump to his defense. “Robert has a lot of sense. He didn’t want me to come here, but he could not go against my orders.”
She turned to the groom. “You needn’t fear I’ll ask you to leave.”
“Now that it is settled that your groom has shown admirable good sense and you, apparently, possess a modicum of it—after all, you did choose someone as your guard who’d show off to advantage in a boxing ring—let me have the word with no bark on it. Why did you come to see me, Lady Maryann?”
“I need to find out if that tale—that rumor—is true. Will you help me?”
Farrell did not speak right away, and the dark eyes fixed unblinkingly on her did not tell Maryann anything. He slid off the table. His back to her, he stood looking out the window.
“I don’t see what purpose it would serve if I involved myself further in your affairs, Lady Maryann. As you pointed out Monday morning, I am considered Tammadge’s friend.”
“But you dislike his habits enough to warn his betrothed!”
He stood unmoving, silent.
“Mr. Farrell, you specifically told me that he is not cut out to be a husband. That he has cravings—” She took a deep breath, wondering if it was easier or more difficult to speak to that stiff back. “Cravings to which a wife would not willingly submit.”
“If you believe me, why are you still betrothed?”
“I cannot break the engagement without good cause! Everything you said to me may be true. None of it can be proven, however, until too late. But the rumor about these other activities could be substantiated, if only you would help.”
He made no reply, did not have the courtesy to face her.
After a moment, Maryann rose, too. There had always been a possibility he might refuse his help, but she had not let the prospect daunt her. Now, faced with silence and an implacable back, her self-control slipped.
“You must help me!” Desperation added a hoarse note to her voice. “I’m not asking you to get involved, but you’re familiar with Tammadge’s habits. You know Seven Dials and, I doubt not, the waterfront as well. You could so easily lead me to the houses he is supposed to own!”
He swung around, and once again, as on the night of the ball, she noted the look of total alertness in his eyes, the tautness of his stance.
“So that’s it,” he said softly. “You heard about the brothels and the gaming hells.”
“Yes.”
She watched him curiously, for she had the impression he was relieved, as though he had expected her to disclose something even worse.
“If you believe Tammadge is involved in prostitution and gambling,” he said brusquely, “why are you here? Why aren’t you at the offices of The Times and the Gazette, with a notice ending the betrothal?”
“But there’s no proof! If they exist, I must find those houses and take the information to Bow Street.”
Behind her, Robert stirred restlessly. Maryann found herself wishing he’d get up and pound some sense into Farrell’s head. Why didn’t Farrell want to help? The odious man simply stood there, staring at her as though she were a freak at Bartholomew Fair.
At the end of her wits, Maryann decided to brazen it out. “If you don’t want to assist me, say so. I’ll find someone else.”
“I doubt it.”
She not only doubted it, she knew there was no one else who could lead her to the proof of Tammadge’s nefarious activities in the time she had left. Hedwig’s friends, Lucy Weller and Rose, knew only secondhand rumors. Rob, Harv, and James were spying on Tammadge, but they might not have any greater success in the future than they’d had in the past.
Farrell was her only hope. He was close to Tammadge. He must know where to look for the brothels and the gaming hells.
“Will you help me?” She swallowed her pride. “Please?”