‘Henry, that is quite brilliant.’ Melissa walked all around the figure who had alighted from the hackney carriage outside her front door at eight in the morning.
He was slightly stooped, had a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles on his nose and his chin was darkened by a night’s growth of whiskers. ‘The suit is one that my landlord found for me. It was left behind by a former tenant who was a writer at the East India Company offices. I sat on the neckcloth before tying it and the boots are old ones that haven’t been polished in an age. I just dusted them. I think the effect is just on the respectable side of shabby.’
‘Exactly that. You look like a clerk from a counting house. What have you done to your hair?’ She peered at what she could see of his normally dark blond crop.
‘A liberal application of grease and a hat that is just slightly too large for me. I think we match very well.’
As the carriage clattered off down the Sunday-quiet street Melissa said, ‘If someone asks us our names, what are we going to say?’
‘Maria and Peter Higgins,’ Henry said promptly.
‘And are we brother and sister or a married couple? I brought Grandmama’s wedding ring, in case.’
‘Brother and sister,’ Henry said decisively. ‘With you veiled, any lack of resemblance does not matter.’
‘Excellent. That means I do not have to be your obedient shadow,’ she said.
‘You really do not have a very high opinion of the married state, do you?’ Henry asked. He was polishing the lenses of his spectacles, which she assumed were plain glass.
‘Unless it is a mutual love match, it seems to be a highly risky undertaking to me. Of course,’ she said casually, studying a darn in her gloves, ‘I could take a lover.’
Henry dropped his spectacles, one lens fell out and they both fell to their knees, scrabbling around on the dirty floor.
‘Here it is.’ She handed it back and they both sat again. ‘That has not done a great deal for our appearance of respectability.’
‘Taking a lover would do even less for yours,’ Henry retorted. He fixed the lens back and polished it furiously. ‘Have you taken leave of your senses?’
‘I do not see why you are so hypocritical about it. Men take lovers all the time. Are you telling me that you are a—?’
‘No, I am not.’ He was snapping at her now. ‘But the risks are appalling for a woman. For a lady. Loss of reputation, the risk of disease, of pregnancy.’
‘I assume men run the same risks.’
‘Not usually loss of reputation. Disease can be guarded against if you know what you are doing and pregnancy can generally be avoided. And if there is, by some accident, a baby, then a decent man will ensure both mother and child are looked after properly. But it is the woman who takes the risk that the man will behave as he should. And what if this theoretical lover turns to blackmail?’
‘I—’ She had not thought of blackmail. Hadn’t really thought any of it through, other than to form the opinion that this was yet another example of men getting what they wanted and women doing without.
Melissa brooded on what Henry had said. It sounded sensible. Not that she was going to tell him she agreed with him, not yet.
‘I shall have to choose with great care, I can see that,’ she said thoughtfully, fully intending to pour oil on the flames, just to see how he reacted. ‘It cannot be much more hazardous than choosing a husband, after all? What if a spouse is diseased or violent?’
‘You are taking a lover over my dead body,’ Henry retorted. ‘Now, put down your veil. We have arrived.’
Over his... She had not intended to make him so angry, only to tease. Penitent, Melissa arranged her veil and then followed Henry out, waiting meekly on the pavement while he paid the driver. She had no desire to provoke him into forgetting the part he must play.
The church was still mostly empty and they slipped into a pew right at the back to watch and wait. Melissa looked around, glad of the concealing veil to cover her curiosity. She liked the smell of incense and the colours, although a few of the brightly painted saints and martyrs were exhibiting the evidence of their deaths in too gruesome a manner to make her feel entirely at ease.
The church began to fill slowly at first, then with increasing numbers.
‘They aren’t coming,’ Henry whispered. ‘Do you want to leave?’
‘I’d like to stay now we are here, it is interesting. Oh, look—that’s von Arten, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. And that’s Laverne behind him.’
They watched as the Graf took his place on a pew tucked away at the side. A moment later the Frenchman joined him. Henry got up, murmuring apologies as he squeezed past an elderly lady, then led the way down the side aisle to the empty pew right behind the two men. He bent over, covered his face with his hand as though in deep prayer and Melissa stared fixedly at her own hands, straining to hear what they were saying.
It was not a great deal, although fortunately they were speaking French and not German and, never having heard either of them speak before, she had no idea which man said what. She caught, ‘La compagnie’, then a long gap where she could make out nothing. Then ‘Il veut plus d’argent.’
It was said angrily, but the other man replied in soothing tones, ‘Ça vaut le coup.’
Melissa slid her notebook out of her reticule and noted the few scraps down.
The company...
He wants more money...
It is worth it...
Then there was movement, the congregation rose and the two men fell silent.
The service continued and she tried to copy what the other women she could see were doing, remaining in her seat, as did Henry, while the sacrament was taken. The Frenchman in front of them went up to the altar and, for a moment, she thought, Hypocrite. But, of course, he thought he was doing his patriotic duty, just as she and Henry were. She kept her head bent as he returned and the service continued.
As the congregation began to gather their possessions together and stand up, von Arten turned to the Frenchman and she saw him speak. ‘Donnez-moi les papiers, maintenant.’
The other man hesitated, then nodded and stood to follow von Arten out of the pew. He was fumbling inside the breast of his coat and she saw him take out a folded document.
Right under our noses!
Melissa stood, edged towards the aisle and then, just as the Frenchman handed the papers to von Arten, she stumbled, gave a little cry of alarm and crashed into him. They both ended up on the floor and she felt the folded document jab into her ribs.
‘Oh! That hurts.’ She struggled into a half-sitting position, flailing out at the Frenchman as he tried to help her—or perhaps simply seize the papers. Henry was on his knees beside her and she felt his hand slide under, take the papers, flatten them out, and she flapped about even more.
For a few seconds there was chaos as helpful ladies hurried to assist her, von Arten was pushed aside by sharp female elbows and showered with indignant protests as he got in the way.
Beside her, Henry, his accent more East End than Mayfair, snapped at Laverne, ‘’Ere, you keep your hands off my sister, mate.’
Finally she was on her feet, veil still in place, Henry supporting her. They brushed aside the offers of help, smelling salts, a glass of water, and made their way out, not looking to see what the two conspirators were doing.
‘Did you see anything?’
‘Wait until we are in the hackney.’ Henry hailed one, lost it to a plump matron with three children in tow and secured another. ‘Smithfield,’ he called up to the driver.
‘Are you hurt?’ he asked as they collapsed inside.
‘No, not at all. Why Smithfield?’
‘I’ll tell him to change in a moment once we’re out of sight and earshot.’ They rounded a corner and he lowered the window and called up, ‘Make that Half Moon Street, if you please.’
He gave the number and there was a remark, thankfully unintelligible, from the driver and he closed the window. ‘What did you hear? That was brilliantly quick thinking and very good acting. Even I thought you really had tripped at first.’
Melissa showed him her notebook. ‘Were you able to see the papers?’
‘Just a glimpse, but enough to know it concerns the East India Company and there were some initials—J.P.R.—on the last sheet. That is distinctive enough to identify the writer, I imagine.’ He sat back. ‘I’ll pass that on and someone will take action, identify who J.P.R. is and deal with him. Out of my hands now so I can go back to enjoying my holiday before they decide where to send me next.’
‘Do you think either of them recognised you?’ Melissa worried.
‘No, I doubt it. I didn’t look von Arten in the face and Laverne doesn’t know me personally. Thank you for all your assistance. I will drop you off, then go on to Whitehall and report.’ He smiled at her, looking so strange with his shabby clothes and spectacles that she laughed out loud.
‘How will you spend the rest of the day?’ Henry asked. He removed the glasses and stuck them in a pocket. ‘Catching up on your writing?’
‘Yes,’ she said, with rather less enthusiasm than he was clearly expecting. ‘I was in a muddle, Henry. I thought I would write something that would appeal to Mr Murray—a witty and incisive comedy of manners, perhaps. But I cannot seem to enjoy it. So I have begun to write another of my romantic adventures. It must be our cloak-and-dagger experiences that are unsettling me.’
‘I’m sorry about that.’ Henry frowned. ‘The last thing I want to do is distract you from your work.’
‘It isn’t that at all. I think I must wait to get the right inspiration and, meanwhile, I can write what I enjoy. Oh, and, Henry, I did hear what you said about taking a lover. I was only teasing you.’
He shook his head at her. ‘You’ll be the death of me, Melissa. I had visions of having to patrol outside your house with a shotgun to fend off unsuitable types.’
‘There are suitable ones, then?’ she asked, smiling to show him she was teasing again.
‘None,’ he said with emphasis as the carriage slowed. ‘We are back.’
‘Don’t get down,’ Melissa said, turning to kiss his cheek. She hopped down before he could move and called up, ‘Take the gentleman on to Whitehall, please.’
Henry leaned out of the window. ‘I’ll come with you tomorrow and wait outside, unless you are going with your friends.’
‘Thank you,’ she said with relief. ‘I thought too many of us would perhaps make her more resistant to reason. But knowing you are there will stop me turning tail and running!’
Henry was a dear, she thought as she closed the front door. He was a real friend and he made her feel safe while managing to let her be involved in situations which might be difficult, even dangerous. That, she suspected, was rare for a man.
Yes, he was a dear man, but he still gave her that unsettling sensation deep inside, that frisson of excitement and...hunger. And the way he had reacted when she had half seriously talked of taking a lover had been almost thrilling, as though he was acting out of jealousy. When, of course, he was simply making commonsense objections.
Cousin Almeria emerged from the back of the hallway as Melissa took off her bonnet. She had a small box in her hands, the top covered in a cloth. ‘Ah, there you are.’ She blinked. ‘That is rather a plain gown, is it not? Surely I have not missed the news that suitable attire for Sundays must be so dowdy.’
‘I have been on a small adventure with Lord Henry and this is my disguise. I will change in a moment. Were you looking for me?’
‘No, other than to wonder what time you would be in for luncheon. I believe I will not have time to examine last night’s catch of moths until this afternoon.’ She nodded towards the box she carried. She placed it carefully on the hall table. ‘They will be safe and cool there.’
Gertrude came downstairs and took the bonnet and shawl.
‘I am sorry there is dust on the skirt,’ Melissa apologised as they mounted the stairs. ‘I tripped over in the church. We will have luncheon just as soon as I have changed, Almeria,’ she called down. ‘Could you tell Cook?’
‘And how is Lord Henry?’ her cousin enquired over cold roast beef and a salad of lettuce and herbs. ‘Such a pleasant gentleman. Your parents will be delighted.’
‘He is merely a friend,’ Melissa said mildly, aware of the dangers of protesting too much. Although there was nothing mere about Henry. She thought of his shoulders and of the form-moulding breeches and shivered a little.
‘Pleased by the connection, I mean. I am certain you are much too level-headed to fancy yourself in love, not when you have set your future course so firmly in place.’
Melissa gave her cousin a long look from under her lashes. Almeria was, surely, too sensible to leap to conclusions and too unconventional herself to assume that Melissa was merely being coy when she said she was not searching for a husband.
‘Exactly,’ she said, realising she had left her answer rather too long and then—completely irrationally, because what did Cousin Almeria know of matters of the heart?—blurted out, ‘Only, I am afraid I am becoming rather too fond of him.’
Oh, what a silly, inadequate word fond is.
‘You are in love with him?’
‘Goodness, no.’
‘You desire him?’ Almeria might have been referring to the breeding habits of the hawk moth for all the discomfiture she showed.
‘I think so. And I like him a great deal. But that is not love, is it?’
‘I have no idea. You do not appear to be pining.’ Her cousin cast an expressive look at Melissa’s empty plate. ‘Have you any urge to write poetry about him?’
‘Certainly not. What an idea. It is just that he makes me feel that it is right to be with him. He seems to understand me and like me.’ She frowned.
‘That is unusual in a man, I must say. Well, my diagnosis, for what it is worth, is that you like him as a friend and he likes you—which is always attractive. You desire him physically, which hardly seems strange when you are both young and healthy and he is a rather fine specimen.’ She took a mouthful of roast beef, chewed thoughtfully, swallowed and added, ‘Acting upon those feelings might, however, be unwise.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Hadn’t she and Henry discussed just how unwise such things would be only that morning? Or, rather, he had expressed himself forcefully on the subject and she had agreed with him. Only...if one were to take the risk, surely Henry, so alert to the dangers, so concerned for her welfare, would be the perfect man? ‘Of course,’ she repeated with more emphasis. ‘It would be most imprudent.’
‘The absence of the pleasures of conjugal relations and the resulting children are the two greatest sacrifices a woman makes for living an independent life,’ Almeria said. ‘Each person must make the decision for themselves as to whether it is worth it.’
‘And you think it is?’ Melissa asked bluntly.
‘For myself, yes. I have no maternal instinct and, I am certain, I would be feeling regrets by now if I had. As for the other, well, brisk exercise and intellectual stimulation are the answer, I find.’
Melissa thought of Henry’s mouth on hers, of the feel of his body, lean and hard under her hands, of the way she felt when they danced, and found she was not so convinced about Almeria’s remedy as her cousin appeared to be. Brisk physical excise—of a specific kind—with Henry and discussion afterwards, now that did seem appealing, but she was coming to regret her curiosity about the process of human coition and the determination with which she had pursued it. She knew too much in theory and now her writer’s imagination was filling in the blanks with inconvenient enthusiasm.
She finished her meal and excused herself. Perhaps someone else’s problems would take her mind off her own. She settled at her desk to write to her four friends, a brief note to each, describing what she and Henry had discovered and what she intended to do about it.
I propose calling by myself tomorrow morning, if one of you will send me her address—I believe Lucy said she knew it.
I do not know what the effect on Miss Houghton might be of several of us descending on her with such delicate and disturbing news. If I cannot convince her of the danger, then I think we will have to approach her guardians, and in that case at least two of you, titled married women, should carry more weight than one spinster.
I will write again as soon as I have anything to report.
Melissa
She sat and thought for a while about how she should tell Letitia Houghton that she was the victim of a cruel fortune hunter. Try to be kind and soften the message? But how? No, she decided after much agonising, state the facts and hope to be believed.
With relief she pulled the few pages already completed of The Rogue Lord of Castle Darke towards her, dipped her pen in the ink and began to make the changes that were bubbling away in her imagination. A hero who was kind, intelligent and tough and the possessor of a pair of mesmerising blue eyes. A heroine who was independent and who acted at his side, not in his shadow, and a villain... Now, who would that be? What were these two working to overcome? What was the secret of Castle Darke?