With This Ring Page 9

  He let himself out of Sibson’s establishment and walked across the street. A young woman with unnaturally red hair and heavily rouged cheeks smiled at him from a doorway. She pulled a tattered woolen scarf away from the bodice of her faded gown. The front of the dress did not quite cover her painted nipples.

  “Care to sample the wares, m’lord? I’m a bit younger than those old relics in Sibson’s shop. And a good bit livelier too, I’ll wager.”

  She was young, though not as young as some. They aged quickly on the streets, Leo thought. “No, thank you.” He took a few coins out of his pocket and dropped them into her hand as he made to walk past her doorway. “Go get yourself something to eat.”

  She glanced at the coins, briefly baffled. Then her fingers closed convulsively around the money. She searched his face. “Are ye certain ye won’t have a quick toss? No need to use the doorway. I’ve got me own room upstairs.”

  “I’m rather pressed for time at the moment.”

  “Pity.” She gave him a hopeful look. “Maybe another day?”

  “I don’t believe that will be possible,” he said gently.

  “Oh.” She sighed with disappointment but she did not look surprised. “Expect yer accustomed to the fancier sort, eh?”

  “As I said, I’m in a hurry. Good day to you, madam.” Leo started to move past her.

  His politeness made her giggle. The youthful laughter reminded him of how young she was. “Such a gentleman ye are, sir. Not like the other gentry coves what came to Cunning Lane to visit Sibson’s shop. Most of ’em look at me as if I was a pile o’ rubbish in the doorway, they do.”

  Leo stopped. He turned slowly back to look at her. “Do you work in this doorway every day?”

  “Every day for the past three years.” She brightened. “But I won’t be here forever. I’m savin’ me money. Tom over there at the Drunken Cat wants to retire. He says he’ll sell me his tavern business if I can come up with the blunt.”

  Leo glanced down the street and saw the establishment. The sign over the door was painted with a blue cat. Then he looked back at the antiquities shop. “You must see everyone who comes and goes from Sibson’s place of business.”

  “That I do.” She wrinkled her nose. “But most of ’em pretend they don’t see me. They take their trade to expensive little ballet dancers and houses where the girls get to work inside all the time and never have to stand in doorways.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Clarinda, m’lord.”

  “You are obviously a woman who understands the ways of business, Clarinda.”

  She smiled proudly. “Old Tom’s been teachin’ me about shopkeeping in exchange for me services. I’m learnin’ everything I need to know to operate the Drunken Cat. Tom says I have a talent for handling money and customers.”

  “I’m in the market for information. If you wish to sell it, I will pay well.”

  She tipped her head to one side. “What sort of information?”

  “Most of the patrons of Sibson’s shop are regulars, are they not?”

  “Aye. For the most part.” She squinted at him. “I never noticed you before.”

  “I haven’t paid a visit to Sibson’s in a long while. I don’t think you were here the last time I stopped by to see his wares.”

  She shrugged. “Mayhap I was upstairs with a customer.”

  “Perhaps.” Leo took more coins out of his pocket. He had stirred Sibson’s pot. It would be interesting to know if anything bubbled to the surface. “Has Sibson acquired any new customers recently?”

  “Just the regulars. With the exception of yerself, sir.”

  “I would like you to keep an eye on his shop. Make a note of any unusual activity you see. Also, I would very much appreciate it if you would pay special attention to any new customers who visit him. Or any of his regulars who appear to stop by more often than they customarily do, for that matter.”

  A flicker of something that could have been hunger or hope lit her eyes. “Ye’ve got a bargain, m’lord.”

  “Make certain that no one observes you watching the place.”

  “Not bloody likely that any of the fancy would take a second look at me, sir.” Her mouth curved bitterly. “Yer the only one who’s noticed me in months.”

  “I’ll come by for a report in a day or two.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  Leo made to turn away. He paused. “In the meantime, use some of those coins to buy yourself a warmer shawl. You will do me no good if you take a chill.”

  Clarinda’s startlingly young giggle echoed in the doorway.

  Leo walked on through the convoluted rabbit warren of thin, twisted lanes until he reached a more respectable thoroughfare. Here the prosperous, well-tended shops offered a stark contrast to the seedy establishments entombed in the dark streets he had just left.

  He glanced in a bookshop window as he raised a hand to hail a hackney carriage. A stack of novels was on display beneath a sign that announced that the proprietor was pleased to offer The Castle of Shadows by Mrs. Amelia York.

  The carriage rumbled to a halt in front of Leo. He vaulted up into the cab, gave the direction of his town house, and sat back to contemplate the little he had learned in the past two days.

  He had been busy, but he had very little to show for it. As discreetly as possible, he had renewed old contacts and notified his regular informants that he wanted anything and everything he could get on the subject of the Forbidden Rings. Thus far, all he had managed to acquire were vague rumors and a few intriguing whispers.

  He was not pleased with his lack of progress. He was fairly certain that if he did not accomplish something impressive quite soon, his new business associate would lose patience with him.

  He removed his pocket watch and glanced at the time. Two o’clock. He had an appointment to take Beatrice driving in the park at five. He did not intend to miss it. He had not seen her since they had arrived in London two days earlier. He had been occupied settling into his little-used town house, reestablishing contacts, and making his initial inquiries.

  Leo gazed absently at the passing traffic, aware of a gathering sense of intense anticipation at the prospect of seeing Beatrice. He had hoped that two days spent out of her company would serve to put their association into a more rational perspective. The short separation had done nothing of the sort. It had only deepened the hunger.

  “Damnation.” He drummed his fingers on the door of the cab. Where would it all lead? he wondered.

  He knew that he was on dangerous ground when it came to Beatrice. It was probably not wise to get involved with a woman who could so effortlessly arouse the more volatile side of his nature. On the other hand, he thought, in view of his mature years, it was oddly gratifying to know that he still possessed a volatile aspect to his temperament.

  Leo realized that he was grinning for no good reason.

  Chapter 6

  The figure beckoned with its transparent hand. “Come. This way. Follow me into the darkness.”

  FROM CHAPTER SIX OF The Ruin BY MRS. AMELIA YORK

  “Beatrice, they are here.” Arabella swept through the doorway of the study. “The bound copies of your new book have arrived at last. I do believe that the binder did a rather nice job this time. Very dignified, don’t you think?”

  Beatrice looked up from the carefully folded note that she had received moments earlier. In spite of the excitement the contents of the message had induced, she was briefly distracted by the sight of her cousin.

  With her bright blue eyes, lustrous dark hair, and fine-boned features, Arabella was lovely by any standards. The fact that she was also a kind-hearted, extremely charming, and even-tempered young lady was icing on the cake.

  Under Winifred’s guidance, Arabella had created a small but distinct sensation in the more modest circles of the ton. Pearson Burnby, Lord Hazelthorpe’s heir, had been obliged to stand in line with a number of other eager gentlemen in order to ask for a dance. Invitatio
ns had not exactly flooded Beatrice’s town house, but a pleasant trickle kept Winifred and Arabella agreeably occupied. The pair was often out until dawn.

  Beatrice glanced at the volume in Arabella’s hand. “Yes, the binder did an excellent job. Do you know, with all that has happened lately, I very nearly forgot about The Castle of Shadows.”

  “I do not see how you could forget it” The primrose-colored skirts of Arabella’s new muslin gown fluttered around her ankles as she walked to the desk. “I vow, it is quite your most thrilling story. The scene with the ghost in the crypt sent chills down my spine.”

  “Excellent. Let us hope everyone else who purchases the book gets the same reaction. My readers seem to have an unending need for chills down the spine.”

  “They will adore your hero.” Arabella set the novel on the desk. “He is so deliciously exciting. One almost believes that in the end he actually will turn out to be the villain after all. However do you manage to conceive of such exciting gentlemen?”

  Beatrice glanced at the leather-bound copy of The Castle of Shadows. “I have no notion. It is as if my heroes have minds of their own. They insist upon being difficult.” Not unlike Leo, she thought.

  Arabella laughed. “Pray, do not trouble to change them. I saw the long line of people waiting in front of your publisher’s bookshop the day he offered The Castle of Shadows for sale. Your readers prefer your heroes just the way they are.”

  Beatrice smiled. “It is a pity the critics do not agree with them. But, then, as Uncle Reggie once said, an author must decide early on whether to write for the readers or the critics, because there is generally no way to please both.”

  “Poor Uncle Reggie. He was so much fun.”

  “He was also my favorite sort of reader. He loved everything I wrote.”

  He had also been her most loyal champion, Beatrice thought. He had never failed to fire off scathing letters to the critics who attacked her novels. Once he’d told her, “It is their own stunted powers of imagination which make it impossible for them to appreciate your exciting books, my dear. Pay them no heed.”

  She glanced at the bundle wrapped in brown paper and string that sat on a high shelf in the bookcase. A familiar twinge of wistfulness went through her. “I really do miss him.”

  Inside the package was a copy of the manuscript that had eventually become The Castle of Shadows. She had given it to her uncle to read in advance, as was her custom, although the title had not yet been fixed. She had hoped to get Reggie’s opinion on the one she had tentatively selected. He’d had a knack for good titles.

  As fate would have it, Reggie had finished the manuscript and arranged to have it sent back to her the afternoon of the day he died. There had been no opportunity to talk to him about the title. She had received the manuscript and the news of his death simultaneously the following morning.

  Saddened, she had put the bundle on the shelf and taken her publisher’s advice on the title. Mr. Whittle was very fond of titles with the word castle in them.

  Winifred bustled into the doorway. “There you are, Arabella. I have been searching everywhere for you. It is nearly three o’clock. Mr. Burnby will be calling at any moment. You know how punctual he is.”

  Small, silver-haired, and bright-eyed, Winifred had more energy and enthusiasm at seventy than many people half her age. Launching Arabella into the Polite World was a task perfectly suited to her spirits. She had gloried in every minute of the business, from the selection of gowns and gloves to the Machiavellian scheming required to secure invitations.

  “Do not concern yourself, Aunt.” Arabella smiled. “I am ready to receive Mr. Burnby. Beatrice and I were just admiring a bound copy of her new book.”

  “The Castle of Shadows?” Winifred cast a distracted glance at the volume. “Oh, yes. I am told that everyone is reading it. I vow, Beatrice, if we do not manage to recover the funds Reggie threw away on those silly artifacts, you may have to teach Arabella to make her living as an authoress.”

  Beatrice carefully refolded the note in her hand. “I doubt that will be necessary, Aunt Winifred. I feel certain that we are well on our way to discovering the Rings.”

  “I can only pray that you are correct.” Winifred sighed. “I do not know how much longer we can maintain appearances. Thank heavens we have your friend Lucy to design Arabella’s gowns. We would not be able to afford any other modiste.”

  Beatrice raised her brows. “Lucy Harby just happens to be one of the most fashionable modistes in Town.”

  Arabella giggled. “You mean Madame D’Arbois, not Mrs. Harby, do you not?”

  Beatrice smiled. “Quite.”

  Arabella’s amusement faded. “It does not seem fair, does it? It is obvious that Lucy has a great talent for designing beautiful gowns. But if you had not hit upon the notion of giving her a French name, she might never have become one of the most exclusive and expensive dressmakers in all of London.”

  Beatrice shrugged. “When it comes to matters of fashion, one must never forget the importance of a French accent.”

  “It is the way of the world,” Winifred said airily. “Now, then, Arabella, do not forget that you are to wear your new blue gown tonight. It looks as if it cost a fortune. We must not allow anyone to guess for an instant that Reggie’s money has disappeared.”

  Arabella made a face. “You fret too much about the matter of money, Aunt.”

  Winifred rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “Naïve child. It is impossible to fret too much about money when one does not have any. I vow, I live in utter terror that the news of our financial ruin will become common gossip among the ton. If that occurs, we are lost. Hazelthorpe’s heir will vanish in an instant.”

  An unusual expression, that of irritation, flashed in Arabella’s eyes. “That is most unkind. I assure you, Pearson’s affection for me will not be altered if he discovers that I no longer possess a respectable inheritance.”

  Beatrice and Winifred exchanged speaking glances. Beatrice shook her head slightly, warning Winifred not to argue the point. Arabella was still very young. It would be a pity to destroy her sweet, trusting nature any sooner than necessary.

  Like so many other things, Beatrice thought, innocence, once lost, could never be regained.

  Mrs. Cheslyn, the dour, whipcord-tough woman of indeterminate years who served as Beatrice’s housekeeper, came to a halt in the doorway.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, ma’am,” she said in a very loud voice. “Mr. Burnby is here.”

  “Oh, dear.” Winifred looked at the clock. “A bit early. Show him to the parlor, Mrs. Cheslyn.”

  “He’s five minutes early, to be precise.” Mrs. Cheslyn scowled. “I was told he was expected at three.”

  “Yes, I know, Mrs. Cheslyn.” Winifred said in a placating voice. “But his eagerness is a good sign.”

  “See here, I cannot be expected to run this household properly without a reliable schedule.” Mrs. Cheslyn turned away and stalked back down the hall.

  Arabella started toward the door, a glowing smile on her face. “Pearson spent the weekend rusticating at the Marsbecks’ country house. He has promised to tell me all about it.”

  “Run along.” Winifred said. “But remember, not a word to Mr. Burnby about this business of the missing artifacts. If even the smallest hint of our impending disaster gets out, the creditors will be knee-deep on our doorstep.”

  “I promise.” Arabella paused in the doorway. “Not a single word. But I do think you are overly concerned about the matter.”

  Winifred waited until she was gone. Then she sank down onto a chair and fixed Beatrice with a grim look. “I am so afraid that she will confide all in Mr. Burnby. She has such boundless faith in his affections. I cannot convince her that gentlemen of his rank never marry for love unless it happens to go hand in hand with money.”

  “She claims Mr. Burnby is different.”

  Winifred waved that aside. “Even if that is true, we may be certain that his parents are fash
ioned of the usual material. The least hint of Arabella’s inheritance being in jeopardy, and they will insist Pearson look elsewhere for a wife.”

  “I have no more illusions on that subject than you do, Aunt Winifred.”

  “Lady Hazelthorpe is playing her cards very close to that oversized bosom of hers. She has given me to understand that she is not entirely satisfied with her son’s interest in Arabella. Implies he has other prospects.”

  “A ploy, I’m sure. She’s trying to force us to sweeten Arabella’s dowry.”

  “Indeed.” A steely determination gleamed in Winifred’s sharp eyes. “She plays the game well, but I am no novice at this sort of thing. I got my niece Carolyn married off two years ago, and I vow I shall be successful with Arabella too.”

  “I have absolute faith in your abilities in this sort of thing.”

  “But we must keep our financial situation a secret or, better yet, recover Arabella’s inheritance. Accomplish that, and I’ll have an offer out of young Burnby within the month.”

  “Concentrate your skills on managing Arabella’s social life, and I will focus my attentions on recovering her inheritance. Between the two of us, I have every hope of success.”

  Winifred frowned thoughtfully. “Speaking of your end of the business, are you quite certain that it was a good notion to involve the Mad Monk in this affair?”

  “You have asked me that question a hundred times since I returned from Devon. And I have given you the same answer each and every time. I believe that he will be most useful in this venture.”

  “But his reputation, my dear. It is so exceedingly odd.”

  “We are dealing with a very odd situation. The thing is, he is an expert in antiquities and legends. We require the services of an authority in the field.”

  “Nevertheless, I cannot help thinking that it would have been better not to bring such a noted eccentric into the affair.” Winifred brightened. “On the other hand, he is an earl. His association with our family will not go unnoticed.”