The Lord Pretender, page 3
Chapter Five
The Prometheans’ Club was a venerable organization of titled gentlemen hailing from the most feared and respected families in the kingdom who gathered every Tuesday to address critical problems and devise ingenious solutions for guiding the great ship of state. Or so the story was told. Mostly, they drank port, smoked cigars, and played cards. But why dispel a well-cultivated myth with anything as mundane as truth?
And so, a few hours after his astonishing collision in the street, Simon found himself playing a round of Pope Joan with three other gentlemen at the club’s hall on Bond Street. The selection of the game proved fortunate on two accounts. First, due to the chance nature of the game, bets remained low. Second, it required minimal attention. This latter benefit allowed Simon to dwell on the mysterious young woman in black without losing his shirt. He sat across the staking board from the Marquess of Velator, distinguished president of the club, while Lord Marsden, a baron, sat to his left. To his right was Richard Thorpe, the Viscount Middleton. They lacked only a duke for a royal flush, but the dukes had all opted for a round of piquet.
“Your play, Blackburn.”
Lord Velator’s directive awoke Simon from his semi-stupor, and he laid down a four and a five before passing play and falling back into his thoughts. Just who was that remarkable woman? Her speech marked her as a lady, but he didn’t recall coming across her at any event of the past three London Seasons. Had she married young and become widowed? Perhaps her marriage had been arranged without the need for appearing at Society functions. He could think of no other explanation. He could no more have overlooked such a woman than he could stop thinking of her now. As other young ladies of the ton allowed the social current to carry them toward the sea of shackling matrimony, the mystery woman seemed to carve a solitary path upriver. Nothing about her matched the present standards of beauty among the Upper Ten Thousand—which was precisely why he had found her so deucedly attractive. Those flaring hips. The ample bosom. Those sweeping eyebrows. That raven hair. And those remarkable eyes that seemed formed by the fey from the heather of the Highlands. If only he knew her game. If only I knew her name.
“What’s the lady’s name, Blackburn?”
The question from the viscount jarred him to attention. “Beg your pardon?”
Middleton grinned at him shrewdly. “You heard me. What’s the name of the lady who so preoccupies your attention?”
Simon bit off a curse. He and Middleton had known each other for fifteen years. They had bloodied each other’s noses repeatedly at school until rivalry had matured into brotherhood, and now even the massed armies of Napoleon could not come between them. If anyone knew his thoughts, it would be Middleton. Denying his friend’s claim would prove pointless.
“I can’t say.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“The former, unfortunately.” He took a swig of port to gather his explanation. “I…encountered her…on the street, we flirted ridiculously, and we parted without benefit of a mutual introduction.”
Marsden raised an eyebrow. “No chaperone, then?”
“No.”
“Naughty boy. She must have been a fine sight.”
“The finest I have seen.”
“And was she a proper lady?” asked Middleton. “Or perhaps another kind of lady—one who works at night.”
Anger boiled up within Simon and he leveled a withering gaze at Middleton. “You are my best friend. However, should another disparaging word cross your lips regarding the woman, I will surely break your nose.”
Marsden coughed on his port and Velator expelled an uncomfortable harrumph. Middleton’s eyes widened briefly before he laid a hand lightly on Simon’s shoulder.
“My deepest apologies, Blackburn.” His normal amiable demeanor had surrendered all trace of amusement as he peered at Simon with clear regret. “I had no idea about this woman’s impact on you. My words were careless and inappropriate.”
Suddenly embarrassed about his uncharacteristic flash of reaction, Simon forced the clouds from his face and waved a dismissive hand. “Think nothing of it.”
Middleton watched him a moment longer before releasing Simon’s shoulder and nodding. “May I rephrase my question, then?”
“If you like.”
“This woman. This stranger,” said Middleton. “How did you know she was a lady?”
Simon shook his head, still recovering from his outburst. “She was cultured, refined, and elegant. Her eyes shone with intelligence, and her conversation sparkled with wit. But…”
Middleton let Simon’s final word hang for several seconds before rolling a hand toward him. “But what?”
“She was wearing black.”
“Are you saying…”
“Yes. She was clearly in mourning.”
Lord Velator, who’d fallen unusually silent, huffed loudly. “Some hapless chit, no doubt cast adrift by her husband’s death. Likely confused about her suddenly unmarried state and given to a fit of emotion. Why else would she flirt with a stranger while grieving a loss?”
“Perhaps,” said Marsden, “she was grieving someone other than a husband.”
“Not likely,” said Velator. “The female mind only has so much capacity for loss before it becomes unhinged. You can hardly blame the poor creature for capitulating to her base nature.”
“I see your point,” said Marsden. “I must struggle constantly to keep my wife buffered from the more taxing affairs of my barony. For her own good, as you know.”
Velator lifted one side of his lip in the promise of a sneer. “My wife only cares that I supply her with pin money and sons, and I manage both very well. Blackburn and Middleton would do well to consider my example before selecting a wife.”
Simon slowly lowered his brow while holding tightly to his constrained anger. Velator was a jackass who’d refined boorish behavior to an art form, but he still outranked Simon. Middleton, who had found sudden interest in his cards, played a six and a seven without acknowledging the dreadfully misogynistic advice from the marquess. Simon lifted a stony glare toward Velator to find the man regarding him with the sneer still half formed.
“You disagree, Blackburn?”
“I do.”
Velator dropped an eight and a nine onto the table. “Might you enlighten us?”
Simon folded his fingers atop his playing hand and returned the marquess’s steady gaze. Middleton knew his feelings on the matter. Why not tell Velator and Marsden?
“I believe,” he said, “that the opposite of what you say is true. The mind of a woman is anything but weak, and she does not require a man’s protection. In fact, it is we who require protection from her.”
Velator arched his eyebrows while Middleton groaned and dipped his forehead further. Marsden let loose a whistled breath and chuckled. “Come now, Blackburn. Enough with the jests.”
Simon pinned Marsden with a glare until the baron looked away. He shook his head. “It’s no joke. I have watched my mother systematically dismantle anyone who has dared cross her in even the slightest manner. Sometimes, her response is swift. Other times, she works for years to exact revenge. This is not the work of a weak mind, but of a lioness, always on the prowl, always on the hunt.”
“She is an exception, then,” said the marquess.
“Not to my observations.” Simon turned his attention to Middleton, daring him to look up. His friend didn’t take the bait. Simon tapped the staking board with an index finger. “Every woman plays a game, and we are the pieces. I have yet to meet a woman of the ton who does not angle constantly for status, for attention, for wealth. The whole of Society is but a machine built and turned by women for the purpose of manipulating men into matrimony. And we feed ourselves to the machine with the lie that it is of our design.”
Silence fell before Marsden expelled a laugh. “Oh, good one, Blackburn! How very amusing. I almost believed you there.” He played a ten and shook his head, still enjoying the perceived joke. Simon exhaled a sigh. How did his brothers not see the truth?
“Yes,” he said flatly. “A fine joke.”
Velator continued to impale him with a regal gaze. “All very amusing, but you must take your duty seriously, Blackburn. The ladies must know their place, just as you must know yours. Your title, bearing, and successes mark you as the epitome of everything Promethean—a perfect representative of our noble brotherhood. Don’t allow weakness to creep in, or you will descend into ruin as Heathkirk did.”
Simon’s spirit wavered at the mention of the former member. Heathkirk had lost his way at the gaming tables and horse races and had squandered every acre and every penny to his name. Simon had remained silent when the Prometheans had turned him out in disgrace two years earlier and he had stood by as the club had erased the scandalous stain through well-placed threats against dedicated gossips.
“Heathkirk,” grunted Marsden. “Poor sod. I wonder…whatever became of him?”
“He died,” said Middleton quietly. “Only days ago.”
The news startled Simon. Heathkirk? Dead? “Had you kept up with him, then?”
“Not at all, to my shame. As you may recall, he rarely spoke of his family and left no heir. A fate the rest of us avoid only through fickle fortune.”
Simon dropped a gentle hand onto Middleton’s shoulder. “I’m certain the woman who ropes you into matrimony will give you a dozen strapping sons.”
Middleton looked up and smiled softly. “Of course she will. May the same fate befall you.”
Simon grunted. “I may tread the matrimonial aisle in time, but as God is my witness, I will never risk the good opinion of my brothers over a woman. Never.”
Chapter Six
It seemed to Emma that every moment of transcendence was rewarded by a run of days ranging from mundane to dismal. After a week at Red Lion Square, her reward was trending toward the latter. As a result, she found her heart racing over finally making progress on her plan to destroy the hated Prometheans. She examined the door of Finegold’s Lyrical Emporium on Bond Street where, she hoped, the Clock Man was in residence between three o’clock and four-thirteen every Tuesday afternoon.
The Clock Man.
The very thought of the enigmatic rogue drew her teeth into a clench. He haunted the underbelly of London, dealing in shrouded information and peddling murky deeds. It was whispered that lords and peasants alike sought his services, which always came at a vague and ever shifting price. She had thought him a fiction, a bogeyman to scare children, until discovering a tightly scrawled slip of paper amid her dead father’s possessions mentioning the man’s name, his alleged presence at this time and place, and the protocol for calling on him. Desperate determination had driven Emma to the mouth of the lion’s den and now filled her with equal parts hope and dread. Turning back, though, was no longer an option. She would never forgive herself if she faltered now.
Emma inhaled a calming breath and stepped inside the shop. The door clicked shut behind her, blocking out most of the din of Bond Street and inviting a pall of silence into the musty place. The long, narrow interior was dimly lit by a few candles set on scattered pedestals along a central corridor that ended at a tall black door. Row upon row of towering, book-stuffed shelves disappeared off to either side, swallowed by murk. Her scrutiny fell to the table beside the entrance where she’d come to a frozen halt. Four candles burned there beside a placard that read: Take one. Take chances. Take care.
She swallowed her unease, retrieved one of the candles, and held it waist-high before her. After moving a few steps down the corridor, she called out, “Hello? Is anyone here?”
“May I help you?”
She jumped with a start as a person seemed to materialize by her side from the shadows. She spun to face a little old man, who seemed more elvish than human, with bushy white sideburns, a narrow nose, and laugh lines as deep as the English Channel. She paused before remembering the coded message she must use.
“Are you Mr. Finegold?”
“For most of my life, yes.”
She cleared her throat and steadied her flaring nerves. “Do you carry all three volumes of The Mysteries of Udolpho by Ann Radcliffe?”
The old man smiled kindly. “Ah. That, my dear, comes in four volumes. Perhaps you are thinking of The Romance of the Forest.”
“Ah, yes, but not quite. I may have had in mind The Italian.”
Mr. Finegold liberated her candle, spun on his heel, and marched down the central corridor toward the forbidding door. “This way, please.”
She followed, shocked by her success, but fully expecting the man to lead her to the actual works of Ann Radcliffe. They bypassed row upon row of dusty bookshelves crammed with ten thousand works in a dozen languages until they reached the dead-end door. Mr. Finegold rapped the solid wood twice and waited patiently with one hand holding the candle and the other pinned behind his back. As seconds ticked past, Emma eyed the proprietor sidelong. He produced a wispy smile.
“Patience is its own reward.”
She nodded and waited. After half a minute, a deep voice sounded from behind the door.
“Who beckons?”
“Joan of Arc to see you.”
“Let her pass.”
Without another word, Mr. Finegold eased open the door and ushered Emma inside. The door banging shut at her back left Emma in near darkness. The presence of a lean figure seated before her shot a chill up her spine. Just before she decided to leave, a low and rumbling voice filled the room.
“Step closer.”
She reactively crowded the desk behind which the man sat. The planes of his face were mostly lost in shadow, though the cigar burning in a tray at his elbow cast a flickering glow that illuminated his chin but left his eyes obscured. She gathered her scattered courage and stood tall.
“If you are the Clock Man, then I have come for information.”
He chuckled darkly. “Never speak that name aloud, Miss Watts.”
The use of her name despite the unexpected nature of her visit left Emma briefly stunned. She shook her head to clear it. “How did you know my name?”
“I make it my business to know.”
“About me?”
“About everyone. And about what they do in secret, in the dark of the night when they believe no one is watching.”
Emma hesitated. Surely he couldn’t know what she intended to do. She’d not spoken a word of her plan to anyone.
“What do you need, Miss Watts?”
The Clock Man’s question unlocked her tongue. “It is my understanding that you provide unseemly information not available from more reputable sources.”
“I do.”
“Then I need such information.”
He steepled his long fingers on the desktop. “What specific information?”
What specific information, indeed? She’d not considered the question too deeply, perhaps distracted by the anxiety of tracking down such a shadowy person.
The Clock Man chuckled again. “I sense your uncertainty, so perhaps start with this.”
He extended a strip of folded paper to her. She eyed it as if it might bite. “What is that?”
“A list of servants from Promethean houses who are loose of the lip and thin in the pocket.”
She blinked three times. “How…how did you know?”
“An educated guess, Miss Watts. Your father owed me a great deal of money, and I saw how his so-called friends abandoned him.”
The thought of such a shady character knowing just what she was up to nearly sent Emma fleeing, but curiosity anchored her feet to the floor. “I cannot repay my father’s debts.”
“I did not ask that of you. His folly was not your fault. His fall was none of your doing.”
“Did you prepare the list specifically for me?”
“Don’t be absurd,” he said. “I am not a fortuneteller. I keep information at hand for all eventualities. Today, it seems, you are the benefactor of my prudent foresight.”
Even in the darkness, she couldn’t help but narrow her eyes. Everything from the Clock Man came at a price, or so she’d heard. “Then what do you require in exchange for the list?”
He stood, then, to tower behind the desk, all lean menace like an uncoiling snake. “I ask a favor of my choosing at some future time.”
When she backed away from the desk, he held out his palm. “Not that type of favor. But a favor nonetheless.”
He extended the paper again. Before she could do the prudent thing and run, she snatched the list from his hand. “When will you need this favor?”
“A day from now,” he said, “or a year, or a decade. Perhaps never. Just be ready. Tick tock.”
She did flee then, bursting through the door without a proper farewell. Her abrupt departure drove her straight into the backside of another patron, dislodging a book from his hand as he fumbled to maintain a grip on his candle. She scrambled for the lost book and held it to him in apology. When he faced her, she froze.
My Adonis!
Chapter Seven
The widening of the familiar stranger’s magnificent eyes surely matched her own. Emma stared up at her Adonis in disbelief before pushing the book toward him. “My apologies, sir.”
He dropped his gaze to the book as if he didn’t recognize it. She read the title aloud.
“Tales from Shakespeare by Charles and Mary Lamb?” A children’s book? Is he a father? A husband?
“Er, yes.” He gingerly accepted the volume and set it aside. Then he smiled at her, chasing the darkest shadows of the place into the corners of the shop. “So, the hunted becomes the hunter.”
