Cinderella in the Regency Ballroom: Her Cinderella Season / Tall, Dark and Disreputable

Chapter Seven

Jack did not wait for the gathering to officially end. He took a terse leave of his mother, a more polite one of his host, and then he traded a spot in the landau next to Lily for Keller’s mount. Within thirty minutes he was on his way back to London, cursing himself for an uncontrolled idiot and Lily Beecham for a damnably tempting vixen.

Why? He pondered his ridiculous dilemma as the miles passed. Why did the one time he needed to maintain his usual calm and rational focus become the one time he found it impossible to do so? The thought of how badly he’d botched nearly every moment with Lily Beecham sickened him.

He needed to think. Traffic entering London forced him to slow his pace and he cursed under his breath. He longed for the peace and serenity of his rooms. He would refocus, forget the taste of her, the incredible feel of her under his hands, and try to figure out what the hell his next move should be.

Fractious fate intervened, however. When Jack finally made his way home, he sprinted up the stairs—and froze at the sight of his door standing partially open. Wariness, confusion, and finally white-hot anger blossomed in his chest. Silent, he crept forwards. Tense, on alert for any sound or movement from within, he eased the door open. Nothing stirred. Amidst a rising, ever-more-familiar rush of rage, he stepped inside.

Whoever the intruders had been, they’d done a thorough job of it. Every drawer, book, stack of papers, even the clothes in his wardrobe had been torn apart and tossed asunder. Speechless, he stood in the midst of the devastation.

What in hell was this all about? He couldn’t explain this ransacking of his rooms, any more than he could stem his rising tide of temper.

Already weakened by his encounter with Lily Beecham, surrounded by the wreckage of his life, discipline stood not a chance. Jack reached down to pick up a book, sorely tempted to throw it against the wall himself. A whisper of a sound outside gave him pause.

He waited. It came again. The steady, slow sound resolved itself into a set of footsteps on the stairs and only served to fuel his fury. He sunk into a crouch and let it wash over him. Rational thought ceased and blind, pure instinct took hold.

His brain fought back, trying desperately to send the message that something about the approaching threat rang peculiar. But Jack was in thrall to his jangled nerves. The enemy approached, stood just beyond the still-open doorway, set a cautious step over the threshold.

And at his next rational thought, Jack discovered he held a man pressed to the wall. His uninjured forearm pressed tight and cruel into the man’s throat, even as he desperately wished for his knife.

‘Effendi.’ The soft voice in his ear cut through the angry red haze. ‘I do not think you wish to be doing this.’

Startled, Jack glanced to his right. That accent, the silent approach, it could only be … ‘Aswan?’ He looked back, then, to the man he’d pinned. He stepped abruptly away. ‘Oh, God. Eli!’

‘Aye,’ the old sailor-turned-groom grunted, rubbing his throat. ‘And I’ll thank ye for leaving my head attached. Bad enough that I’ll be crossin’ to the other side without my leg. I don’t think the good Lord’ll be so understanding, should I lose my head as well.’

‘I’m sorry.’ He turned to Aswan. ‘But what the hell are you doing here?’ Jack had to admit, he’d felt a surge of satisfaction at the sight of them. These two had been as deeply embroiled in Trey and Mervyn’s search for the Lost Jewel as he had. Jack knew all too well just what this enigmatic Egyptian and peg-legged former sea captain were capable of.

‘There’s news.’ Eli glanced about at the mess. ‘Though I can see we left it a bit too late.’

‘What in blazes is going on? Is Trey with you?’ Jack had jerked suddenly to attention. ‘And who the hell is looking after Chione and Mervyn and the children?’

‘Treyford watches over the family. The slave-taker is still abroad,’ Aswan said. ‘But still he holds sway over many evil men in this country.’

‘Aye, Mervyn’s offices in Bristol and Portsmouth have both been broken into, and both on the same day, it looks like.’ Eli tossed aside a pile of jumbled shirts and settled himself into a chair. ‘I been stayin’ in Wapping, but when I heard, we went up to Mayfair to find the town house looking just like this. We came straight over to warn ye to be on the lookout for trouble.’

Jack laughed bitterly, but not for long. ‘Portsmouth and Bristol both?’ he’d asked. ‘And a synchronised effort? That’s significant manpower.’

‘It’s clear enough now that Batiste is still after the Lost Jewel. Trey cannot hide the fact that he is preparing for a large expedition. He thinks word has leaked to Batiste and that’s why he’s searching the offices.’ Eli glanced about. ‘I s’pose it’s why he’d do your rooms. The bastard wants to know jest where Trey’s headin’—and he’s thinkin’ ye might know.’

Aswan spoke up. ‘This man has a demon in him. He will not stop until he has what he wants.’

The three of them stared at each other in silence. They all knew what Batiste was after did not really exist—and that he would never be convinced of that truth.

‘We’ve got to get our hands on him,’ Jack breathed. ‘He’ll always be there, otherwise. Hanging in the background, waiting for his chance.’

‘Trey’s working on it. He says as you’re to be careful. He feels bad enough about the trouble he’s caused ye.’ Eli exchanged glances with the Egyptian and they both headed for the door. ‘You concentrate on finding Beecham. We’ll uncover what we can about this mess.’ He gestured. ‘We’ll be back to fill ye in before long.’

Dismayed, Jack watched his unlikely allies disappear. He hadn’t the heart to call them back and tell them how badly he’d bungled his search for Matthew Beecham. His anger returned as he stared at the chaos of his rooms. But this time his brain remained engaged. Frantically he began to rifle through the mess, searching for older, sturdier clothing.

There was more than one way to skin a cat, his mother had always told him. Surely there must also be more than one way to catch a scoundrel like Batiste.

Thunk. The tankard hit the table hard, sloshing a wave of dark ale over the brim.

‘Ye’ll need to be drinkin’ a mite more, if ye’ll be taking up the table for the whole of the night,’ the bleary-eyed barman grunted.

‘I’ll order the whole damned place a round when the man you spoke of shows up,’ Jack shot back.

The tapster shrugged and wiped the spill with his stained and dirty apron. ‘Told ye—I’m no man’s keeper. The sod’ll show up, or he won’t. Plenty of other pubs to find ‘is grog in, ain’t there?’

God knew that was the truth, and it felt as if Jack had been in nearly every squalid dockside tavern and low riverside inn in London over the last few nights. ‘I’ll wait just the same,’ he replied and slid a coin across the scarred wood of the table.

The barman eyed the gold, then Jack for a long moment. Finally he scooped up the money, turned and pushed his way back through the low-hung smoke to the tap.

Jack settled in to nurse another pint. The Water Horse might be the seediest, most disreputable pub on the river, but it was the only one that held a promise of a lead to Batiste.

Of all the sailors, dockyard labourers, whores and wharf rats Jack had questioned over the last few days, only the tapster here had flinched at Batiste’s name. A very large purse had bought him the information that one of Batiste’s former crew sometimes drank here.

It was a long shot at best, a fast route to a watery grave at worst. Yet what was the alternative? Pestering Lily Beecham until she heard from her cousin again? Torturing them both and allowing her to goad him into forgetting himself again? He’d rather spend a thousand nights in this sinkhole.

Jack took a drink of the warm ale and grimaced. He’d need an ocean of the stuff to drown his frustration with that girl. Her image hovered in his head, beautiful and lovely and all too tempting. He fought to ignore it, to forget the mad embrace they had shared in Bradington’s gardens. Even the thought of her stirred the emotional turmoil he fought so hard to control.

And perhaps at last he’d come to the real reason he sat at the Horse again tonight. Here he had no attention or emotional energy to spare. Here he had no choice but to focus on his surroundings, on getting the information he sought and on getting himself out alive.

As the hour grew later the likelihood of the latter began to come into doubt. All manner of transactions took place around him, both above board, and by the furtive look of some of the participants, below. The crowd ebbed and flowed like the tide, but through it all someone besides Jack remained constant.

A high-backed booth flanked the door, and two men occupied it most of the night. A massive bull of a man, whose short dingy blond hair peeked from beneath a seaman’s cap, sat silent and watchful with a smaller, swarthier man. They were not drinking either, Jack noted, but the tapster didn’t stir himself to chide them. Not once did Jack see a word spoken between them, but as the taproom grew emptier, the smaller man began to flick an occasional, tell-tale glance his way.

He rose. Better to take his chances in the open than to risk events coming to a head here, where those two might have allies and Jack certainly did not.

He left the pub and strode quickly out into Flow Alley. The fog hung thick and rife with the stench of the river. It swirled and clung to him, making him feel as if he had to swim through it instead of walk.

A lamp hanging outside a pub cast an eerie pool of wavering light as he passed. From the mist floated an occasional snatch of disembodied conversation. It was not drunken revelry or ribald negotiations he strained to hear, but it was not until he reached the wide, empty intersection with Great Hermitage Street that he caught a hint of it—the faint echo of a footstep on cobblestones.

Jack ducked instantly into the doorway of a chandler’s shop. If luck was with him, then whoever it was behind him would walk right on by. If it was not, then at least his back was covered.

Much as he’d expected—Lady Luck had abandoned him. First one figure emerged from out of the gloom, then another. The men from the Water Horse.

Jack drew his knife. Nobody spoke. The shorter man hung back, the larger pulled a stout cudgel from his bulky seaman’s sweater and advanced with a menacing stride.

‘Are you here at Batiste’s bidding?’ asked Jack.

The smaller man spat on to the rough stones of the street. ‘Questions like that is what got ye into this mess.’

‘I just meant to ask if you knew what sort of man you were taking orders from,’ Jack said, never taking his eyes off of the big lout.

‘The sort with gold in his pockets,’ snickered the first man. ‘And before ye ask, no, I don’t care how he come by it—as long as he’s forkin’ over my share.’ He thrust his chin towards Jack. ‘Do it, Post.’

The big sailor moved in. Jack braced himself and waited … waited … until the cudgel swung at him in a potentially devastating blow. Quickly he jumped forwards, thrusting his knife, point up and aiming for the vulnerable juncture under the man’s arm.

But the goliath possessed surprisingly swift reflexes. He shifted his aim and blocked the driving thrust of the knife with the cudgel. The point buried itself in the rough wood. With a grin and a sudden, practised jerk, he yanked the blade right from Jack’s grip.

His gut twisting, Jack knew he was finished. But he’d be damned if he went down without a fight. He ducked low and aimed a powerful blow right into that massive midsection.

He swore his wrist cracked. His fingers grew numb. But the giant just grinned. He reached for Jack. Those thick fingers closed around his neckcloth—and suddenly the great ham-hand spasmed open.

Jack looked up into the broad face so close to his. He met a pair of bulging eyes and flinched at the sight of a mouth wide open in a wordless grunt of pain. From this vantage point, the reason for his silence was clear. Some time, somewhere in this man’s violent past, his tongue had been cut out.

Jack strained, trying to slide out from against the door as the brute turned half-away, reaching behind him. His gaze following, Jack saw the hilt of a knife protruding from the man’s meaty thigh.

The giant grasped the knife. With a thick grunt, he pulled it free. Jack acted instantly, kicking the blade out of the oaf’s hand. Never too proud to take advantage of an opponent’s misfortune, Jack aimed another hard kick at his wounded limb. As the leg began to buckle, he reached up and, yanking hard, pulled his knife free from the cudgel. In a flash, he had it at the man’s throat. The point pricked, drawing blood, before his opponent realised his predicament.

The giant froze. Jack looked over at his companion. ‘Back away,’ he snarled. ‘I’ll cut his throat if I have to.’

A curious, regular tapping sounded out of the mist. Jack tensed, waiting to see what new threat would emerge. Someone had thrown that knife. But which combatant had it been meant for?

His mouth dropped and a wave of surprise and relief swept over him as the fog gave up another figure, wiry, grizzled and wearing an elaborately carved peg below one knee.

‘Eli!’ Jack grinned. ‘You’re like a bad penny, always turning up where you’re least expected.’

The diminutive groom brandished another wickedly long knife. ‘Fun’s over for tonight, mates,’ he said.

The swarthy man let out an ugly laugh. ‘Says you.’ He gestured to his partner. ‘Kill ’em bo—’ His sentence ended abruptly as his legs flew out from beneath him. He flailed briefly and hit the cobblestones hard. In a second’s time, the dark-skinned man in a turban kneeled over him and rested a pistol nonchalantly against his chest.

‘Good evening to you, Aswan.’ This time a dose of humiliation mixed with Jack’s relief. How many times would the Egyptian have to snatch him from the jaws of death?

‘The pair of ye got nowhere to go, ‘cept to hell,’ Eli told the villains with a nod. He gestured for Aswan to release his captive. ‘Unless you’re in a hurry to get there, get up and off wi’ ye both.’

‘Aye, and you keep your friend where he belongs,’ snarled the small man. ‘If we see him again we won’t be giving him his chance—it’ll be a knife in the back from out of the dark.’ He glared at Jack. ‘Understand? Keep to your own lot, bookworm.’

The pair faded into the fog.

‘Come on.’ Eli clapped Jack on the shoulder. ‘This damp is makin’ me leg ache.’

The three of them walked to Leman Street, where they hailed a hackney and had it convey them to a still-open coffee house in the Strand.

The place was empty. The shopkeeper had thrown the chairs up on the tables to sweep, but he was thrilled to stir up a cheery fire and arrange three of his best seats in front of it. He bustled off to fetch coffee and Eli groaned as he settled in and rubbed his leg. ‘Well, which is it, man?’ he asked Jack.

‘Which is what?’ Jack gazed, puzzled, from one of his rescuers to the other.

The groom exchanged a glance with the Egyptian. ‘We told ye we’d deal with this lot. And then we hear tell of a Mayfair toff askin’ questions all over the riverside.’ He shrugged. ‘A man don’t get hisself into a situation like that unless he’s got either a death wish or woman trouble. So which is it?’

Jack groaned and hung his head in his hands.

‘Woman trouble.’ Eli sighed.

Jack peered up at the pair of them. ‘Well, I suppose I should thank you, at any rate.’ He grimaced. ‘What do you hear from Devonshire?’

‘We heard from Trey today. He’s got everything well in hand.’

‘Well in hand?’ Jack scoffed. ‘Batiste’s got his fingers in every pie from here to there and Trey’s got it well in hand?’

‘What I want to know,’ Eli demanded, ‘is why you were at the Horse tonight.’

Jack explained, but Eli just shook his head. ‘It’s more likely that tapster’s in league with Batiste’s men. He probably lured you there and tipped them off.’

‘Well, I had to take the chance, didn’t I?’

The coffee came then, and Eli sighed as he wrapped his hands around his hot cup. Aswan glanced at his mug with distaste.

‘Effendi, why do you feel as if you must take this chance?’ the Egyptian asked.

Jack stared blankly. ‘You just said it, Aswan. Batiste is a dangerous man.’ He glanced around at the empty room, but still lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Chione is your family. Trey and the rest will be soon enough. Can you stomach the thought of him out there, hovering, just waiting for his chance to hurt them? They deserve to live their lives free, without fear and without a constant nagging threat in the background.’

‘Batiste’s more’n dangerous. He’s obsessed, I’d say,’ Eli replied. ‘Treyford wants him taken jest as bad as ye. He’s not above throwin’ his title around, neither. Aswan says as how they’ve had the Navy in Devonshire, and the Foreign Office, too. Even had a couple of Americans in.’ He took a long swallow and grinned in satisfaction. ‘Damned good coffee here.’